In the wake of a small detailed post regarding my Capistrano swoop back to the blogosphere, I found myself spilling, messy. Why I was withdrawing, why writing was so important, why I no longer felt that way. It was in between tweets and threads, reflecting upon how travels and visits in Boston were like stolen breaths under a leaden pall. The breathing, the questions, did not belong. The sense of “We are resigned to this. You never resigned. Be quiet or get out.”
I had come in, and wasn’t supposed to be there anymore. So much was dying, and for real. The things I loved were gone. (Only things, but still.) The leaves were gone, just a heathered grey tree line. The aging of people, accelerated by fearfulness, and visceral struggles. Just lasting was a statement.
And so when old friends and friendly colleagues asked, in simple passing, why I was choosing to do different things, was it the demands of the kids, or some other thing, I spilled, everywhere. And even though I was typing, with mostly flexible hands, where keystrokes are choices, it was spilling out. Lament. Regret. Avowal.
I would like to think that the new year will bring positive developments, but I am not sure. Progress is work, and a family is not additive, it is exponential in its demands. January, I am here with two short drafts and (mostly) good grammar. I’ll think a bit more later.