Hi blog.  You’re still up. I knew you would be.

I was just thinking tonight, what if I said all the words again?  All. the. words. What if I pretended it was the good old days, when I painted my life across these pages with the biggest brush I had? Wide, bold strokes and reckless abandon.  Carefree, if a bit careless at times. What would happen if I let the writer out a bit?

Dare I?

It’s after midnight.  It’s certainly hard to contain her when all the darlings are asleep, except the cat who meows in the windowsill for a late night snack.

Worth a try, he says.

Catch a mouse, I say.  (He is not as much a darling as some)

So, focus.

Writing.

Here’s the thing.  Life is fully more complicated than I ever imagined it to be.  Each word I say has a string tied to it and on the other end is a person.  I can’t just go around tugging strings and tangling up my people.  But, if I am careful, perhaps a little wiggle won’t hurt.

I went on a bicycle ride this afternoon.  With the oldest in charge, I left my phone on the counter.  Mostly, I couldn’t figure out how to carry it.  But a little inside part of me needed to be off the grid, needed to be the Person Who Wasn’t Answering Questions.

It was nice.  And scary, to be honest.  Who is answering the Questions if not me?  What if there is an urgent Question that needs answering and I am off gaily pedaling these country roads?  Might the world explode if I become a Person Who Isn’t Answering Questions?!  Will this mad experiment of a solo bike ride off the grid be the downfall of civilization as we know it?

It was not.

And so, I conclude that it must be okay to be that Person sometimes, who does not Answer Questions.  I suspect, it might be necessary to my sanity to occasionally be that Person.  I could let someone else have a turn Answering the Questions.  A short turn, anyway.

Next string.

I am learning ASL.  Each day I practice, I am more excited.  And then I hang around my deaf friends, and I am dismayed at how very little I know.  This keeps happening, and I am learning to laugh at myself.  I’ll probably never know enough to be much of a friend, but I will keep on baking muffins and inviting them over and signing ridiculously slow.  I keep signing wrong things that amuse them (and me), which makes me smile.  This is a happy string.

Onward.

My brother is home and he is doing well.  We make jokes sometimes now.   Every little positive communication is a very big deal.  To him, to me- to anyone who is coming out the other side of active addiction.  A little pat on the back, a shared laugh, a nice hug– they are like moments dipped in gold.  They are bright and so very valuable.  So we continue to pan for them, shaking the rocks and the soil out of the way, looking for that glint of something special.  The pile grows.  Perhaps we may be rich yet.

Another string.

My daughter is hoping for some pink highlights in her hair.  I was not told this question would be on the test.  (!) It’s nowhere on the syllabus, I’m quite sure of it.  I’ve looked front and back and I guess I’ll just have to wing it.  I’ll make an educated guess (Option C is always a good choice, they say), and hope for bonus questions in case I get this one wrong.  Pink. Hm.

Next.  (Maybe last- I’m finally getting sleepy and the cat quit asking for a midnight snack.)

I was reading the last chapter of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire aloud to the kids today.  It was so hard not to cry, but I couldn’t, because if I cried, they wouldn’t experience the story itself, but rather, MY feelings.  So I resolved myself.  I would feel all the feels (see how current and trendy I am) on the inside, but I would not compromise the integrity of my story telling by showing it on the outside.  I swallowed back the lump in my throat, and blinked away the tears. I would not forget my sacred duty as a deliverer of words, especially those to be heard for the first time.  I dove in and read with all the fullness I possessed. I feel so many things, but I will not lose the story.   Because, at the heart of it, that’s what I want to do.  Give them the story, and let them feel and experience what they will, on their own.  It’s the best way.  It’s authentic.

I think this could be important in more ways than my scarecrow brain can put together right now.  So that’s how I know, it’s time to sleep.  It is one a.m. and the cat has abandoned his perch.  The writer is pacified and drowsy and slightly alarmed at the clock.  (see what I did there)

G’nite all.  Happy dreams from a blog not quite abandoned.  Not yet.

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