Monday, July 11, 2011
Wading Back In
I've done it. I've clicked the New Post button for the first time in about two and a half months. I've been feeling it percolating on the back burner of my mind for a while. With my husband happily drawing in his studio, posting his art again, I'm practically shamed into....
Into what? Being creative? Being true to the voice that wants to speak even when the owner doesn't know what it will say? Trying, rather than reading till bedtime while pretending that normal life is all I need?
Earlier tonight I was reading other peoples' encouraging words when something caught my eye to my left. Beautiful evening light glowing through the lace curtain. As if under a spell, I grabbed the camera and photographed it. I acted without my usual fruitless thinking. That's when I knew I'd write something again soon.
In the quiet months, I've eaten some delightful dishes that I wish I'd recorded, if only for myself, so that the good stuff would be handily in one place: strawberry cake, zucchini salad with mint, roast beef with tomato gravy, black eyed peas with leeks and tarragon, madeleines. I've traveled--to see family, with all the attendant love and lessons--and experienced new places, one of them thrilling in a deep and instructive way. While for some it would be enough to do, I never feel complete unless I say or write something about the good, the bad, and the otherwise moving. That's who I am, when I remember and can be her.
My mother told me once that I learned to talk at ten months and never shut up. I believe it. I in no way feel that I deserve to be heard more that anyone else or that I'm all that with a bag of chips and pickle, but I am one of the expressers. I humbly wait my turn, but I also have to take it. Tag, I'm it. Again.
I'm a dreamer, a questioner, a food lover, a functional chocoholic, an encourager, a writer, and an aesthete, all held back by a glass ceiling of restraint. My toes are in the water; I wade out, but I never dive. Well, almost never.
But I'm still here, vacillating among dinner, despair, and desire. Wonder what tomorow will be?