I keep wanting to talk to you guys. I keep thinking of things to tell you, ways to share what is in my heart, how I spend my days, the things I love and the things that hurt me. The science is right (of course). A body at rest stays at rest. Inertia is incredible.
The longer I don’t write here, the harder it is to come back to these pages. They feel foreign. The act of publishing becomes filled with meaning, as if the words must be particularly special now to warrant so long an absence.
What if I don’t live up to it?
What if my words are just words after a long absence? No more brilliant or filled with epiphanies than any other words on these pages?
Fear is such a bully – so comfortable stepping into the driver’s seat and taking the wheel whether you asked or not. Fear will pick the whole route for you if you don’t shove it out the door and slide over.
* * *
I’m here. Living day to day. Some are good. Some are bad. Most are a mix, and I’m practicing practicing practicing - like scales on the piano - gratitude. Sometimes I forget. I’m late for work, and the house is a disaster, and there are still boxes, and another person tells me my job is ruining their life, and I am overwhelmed. And I don’t want to practice anymore. I want to scream and cry and eat ice cream and cheese puffs and feel miserably, inconsolably sorry for myself. And then it starts to flurry and I catch a downy woodpecker nibbling on the suet my dad hung outside my kitchen window and my wife’s chin fits perfectly in the curve of my neck. And then I remember.
These are my days.