May I be melancholy here? I know it’s my space. But I have only been scratching the surface lately. Today something shifted. After working hard physically and emotionally the past several days (18 hour stints. Fitbit readings in the 20k step range) I drove home tonight and just started crying.
The tears just wouldn’t stop. They were tears of exhaustion. Tears of change.
I took a detour and stopped by my grandmother’s place. Walking through her door, I saw her sitting in her recliner. Once at her side I bent over for my hug. Her arms lifted and circled my neck. It felt like coming home.
“How are you, honey?” she asked.
I plopped down on her sofa and said through the tears that had started again, “I’m so tired. Nothing is wrong. The past few days have been amazing. But with all the change lately… I just can’t seem to stop crying. I feel silly.”
“Don’t feel silly. Sometimes you just need a good cry.”
I nodded. Sniffing and laughing through the downpour.
In the last month or so there have been a lot of changes in my life. Many of them good. But I feel like my axis is shifting. I’m off balance with no anchor.
I’m flying. But erratically so. And now I’m out of fuel. Crashing. I see ocean coming faster. And faster. It’s rising up to meet me.
The magical city of light is calling me. At least that’s how I would like to think about it. In reality it matters not to Paris if I ever set foot on her streets. But it matters to me. So tonight I sip French wine, study metro lines, and repeat basic French phrases over and over… enjoying the sound of the foreign words spilling out of my mouth with some accuracy.
I’ve always been good at repeating accents fairly well. It’s the remembering of the meaning of what I’m saying that is the problem. I get focused on the sound. The lyrical quality of the vowels and consonants. And I’m lost to all else.
But I shall have to focus.
Because Paris is calling. And I will traipsing down her streets within the next month.
Oui! I am answering the call!
Is there anything quite as old fashioned as a pen and paper letter? As I thought about writing you I considered purchasing some fine stationary that would be more fitting of this traditional method of communication. But as you can see, I didn’t. A humble lined legal pas will have to suffice for now.
So what does one talk about in a pen and paper letter. I confess, I’m so accustomed to the instant feedback of a modern age that it feels odd. There’s a level of trust to this. I have to trust that you’ll understand my meaning because it will be weeks before you could ask and I then respond. I suppose it’s more like pouring out a stream of thought with the knowledge of a willing audience waiting at the other end. Continue reading
It is no secret that WordPress is all about community. That is one of the reasons we love it so much. But because of the nature of this digital world and the anonymous style many of us have, when one goes silent it’s difficult to know why.
Did the person just get busy, need some space, or… something worse.
So my friends, I’m worried about someone. And I’m sure I’ll be embarrassing the snot out of him for posting this, but I’m risking that because he is such a kind soul. He is a familiar commenter on many of our blogs even though he, himself chooses to not blog. So Nick, if you’re reading this, let a girl know you’re alive, ok?
And if anyone else out there has news, I would be thankful if you’d let me know.
Love and hugs to you all,
I walk alone in the night, sweat from the heat and exercise beading up on my back, arms, neck, and under my breasts. I look up at the inky sky and see a streak of light slice the star-sprinkled darkness. And I’m reminded of a story a man told. One where high in the mountains the stars fell around him, the air so thin he swore he could hear the crackling as they burnt up in the atmosphere.
And then I’m reminded of other stories. Pictures men have painted for me with their words. A horseback ride through the desert. A herd of giant kangaroos surrounded in a misty morning fog. A lake of snowy ice surrounded by a silent forest. A bohemian shelter in a Grecian cave.
These pictures. I cherish them. For always.
I’m approaching a birthday that puts me very close to the mid 30 mark. And I think I’m regressing. Doing things backwards. You see, I came home from work today, took off my jeans, my black top, and my bra. I tossed on a tee (no bra) and some basketball shorts. I petted the cat. I snacked. I poured myself a glass of red wine. I began watching How I Met Your Mother (season 1).
Now, I’m down an entire bottle of red wine. And some pop corn. And 9 episodes of HIMYM season 1. WTH???? I’m not f*ing 28?!??!?
Yet I’m acting like it.
But damn. The buzz feels good. Like a warm hug from large muscular arms. Like legs that resemble tree trunks gripping my waist. Like… No… Not quite that good. But the buzz makes me long for it. Want it. Crave it.
So let’s drink to the buzz.