Note to world #6584

Recently I have debated whether to stop blogging. 

I feel I may just be repeating myself in slight variation, and some of my struggles are just too much for me to consider sharing in this format – too current, too fresh and lacking in perspective and depth — and honestly: probably just more of the same nonsense.  

Will I ever learn ? 

I possess the intelligence – but not the emotional tenacity – to become some better version of myself.  Instead, I cycle through my dysfunctions every day, acting out predictably with alarming regularity. No amount of breathing can calm me into rational thinking. In some situations, I am less human, more animal, bound helplessly to react in a way I can’t resist despite all my thinking and analyzing – with and without the assistance of therapists and such.  

Will I ever stop?

It frustrates me, this betrayal of my mind by my body – a revelation inextricably tied to my inauspicious beginnings. 

Do we ever become something more than that child we once were or do we just come older, more complicated iterations of the original, like badly reproduced mimeographs. 

The play 

The daughter, she wrote a play. For school. For a class. It was just an assignment but now the school wants to perform the play. 

Then the mother, she reads only three paragraphs and immediately sees her daughter’s pain piercing through the words : 

a young girl who doesn’t quite understand why her father left but who knows enough to realize that the world has changed and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. 

And the daughter, she tells her teacher that her mother told her to trust her instincts and she did. And it came out just so. 

And the mother, she is grateful that her daughter found the words and freed them. 

But the mother, she knows, she knows that the intended audience will never hear these words. 

And the mother, she cries, she cries for her wounded girl who may now begin to heal. 

Life, summer 

I have been trying to take a photo of this spot through every season – there is something about the place that I can never quite capture with my iPhone – as though the tranquility of it escapes from the image every time. Anyway: Here it is at the start of summer.  

Note to world: reunions

She attended the reunion and for a few hours was her old self, someone who had never fit her quite comfortably.  They had even printed out her badge with the wrong name on it, but she didn’t bother to change it. She thought it might be interesting to remember herself – though it was a person she had sloughed off years ago.  Still, it was eerie to be called by her former name and to be perceived through old eyes as the same when she felt so different.  

The whole experience made her feel quite alone, standing there smiling back insipidly at the familiar faces of people she likely also did not really know anymore either.  


She ran so many miles.  

She put on headphones and ran everywhere in all sorts of weather.  She ran away from her home and didn’t want to turn around. She kept pushing her legs and her pounding heart to move beyond him, to forget him – this man who had awakened her mind and her body after both had been slumbering for so long. 

Before she met him, she existed in a haze. She worked, she mothered, she wifed.  She didn’t notice herself, let alone anyone outside of her immediate focus. And then one day she sat in a meeting with him and felt a slight prickle of lusty infatuation all over her skin.  He looked at her with an intensity she felt in her toes. He talked to her – too much.  He asked her questions that were much too personal, ones about her happiness and her sense of meaning.  And worse, she listened and she answered.

And then she found herself at his door more than she cared to say for a longer period of time than she dared to consider. They did not speak at these times. He just opened the door and let her in – and tangled in the dark together, they did not promise or pretend anything.  She did this until he told her that nothing good could come of it.  

And then she was simply left with her running.  

Happy Mother’s Day 

We participated in the cake auction again this year – chocolate stout cake and blueberry crumb cake (thank you, smitten kitchen – my f a v o r i t e cooking blog ever)…..while I was standing there giddy about how terrific our cakes looked and pleased about how much each bidder paid for them, I pondered the somewhat real possibility that I had children as part of a very elaborate scheme to allow myself to do some things I never got to do as a child: to bake all sorts of yummy things and to have a dab of glitter permanently stuck to some part of my body as a leftover from a strange craft project.  

you know: there’s probably a much easier way to do that ….. Oh well.