Late in the evenings, or at three in the morning, the words are hovering, right on the surface, and I'm looking for a place to put them. But she squirms, or somebody needs me, and my arms are full and the words are stuck somewhere; I think that maybe I'll remember where I put them but then I never do.
Life is full, it's all off balance. My back hurts from the strain of it; the baby wearing and hunched-over nursing and sleeping curled like a cup around her. Words nag me, fuzzy and distant like the way that evening and morning leak into one another and I never can remember what day it is . . . and I try to string words together but they snag and stick and I'm trying, in the quiet after hours, to untangle them.
I'm trying to begin again, here in this little world, to begin to write something- anything . . . remembering when blogging was an outlet, a place simply to put the pebbles I'd found and carried home in my pockets. Before I wondered or cared if anyone was reading or what they were thinking. Before I even understood comments on blogs, what that was all about, and startled to find one, and then another, surprised that someone had stopped to peek into this place where I was just thinking out loud.
I'd like to get back to that world that felt private, though of course it is nice to remember that someone may stop by occasionally to read or even offer a thought . . . I suppose if I didn't want to be read I wouldn't blog, I realize the contradiction . . .
but I don't want to write- or not write- anymore for that someone; to negotiate the fear of being insignificant, or dull, or cliche . . .
I'd like to just write again what happens to be on my mind, however common . . . .
You don't have to read it. You don't have to care about the fact that my two year old is taking naps again, or about my four year old's pigtails that make me want to laugh and cry because they make her so grown up and so little girl all at the same time. You probably don't know what to do, either, about my baby waking as soon as her cloth diaper becomes a little bit wet.
But I am reclaiming my right to tell about it. My arms are full, my life is full . . . this is where I spread the treasure out.
I want my blog to be a place to celebrate the joys in life, because I brim with them . . . they may not seem like much, but they are my joys and this is my spot to put them; and there are fears and dark days and whiny moments and it seems only right that I spill those here, as well, because that's life . . . and I'll hope that if you're reading you won't judge me or if you do you won't write mean things to me, but if you must I'll try to ignore it and keep writing anyway. Because this is my life, that's all, and that's what this blog is about . . . as simple and complex, as ordinary and extraordinary, as wild and precious as that.