I’ve been missing from this place. Have you noticed? I have. I had major deadlines at work last week, but finally on Thursday things were quiet. Then the weekend hit and there were outings and ice times and hockey games and a showing. Now it’s Monday night and I’m finally able to sit down with myself and write.
Tomorrow we are having yet another showing. I have no idea how many groups have been through our home, but they keep coming. And while we have a contingent offer, we’re still able to show the house in hopes that a stronger offer comes in. Eventually it will. Eventually we’ll be done and we’ll pack and we’ll haul our stuff across town. Yet, we have no idea where that place will be across town. Or when.
It makes it hard to plan ahead. It makes it hard to find a school. It makes it hard to think of anything that’s more than 30 days out. And if you know me you know I like to plan ahead. Yes, even sometimes beyond those 30 days. It makes everything feel like it’s on hold.
Half our stuff is in storage. Photo albums, toys, cake pans, random bits of our lives that we’re missing but don’t realize aren’t here. Most of those things could probably stay in storage forever and we wouldn’t care, but it’s the little things that I miss. My paints, Daughter’s doll house, those cake pans.
And someday we will unpack it. We’ll enter a house that is empty and bare and we’ll gradually make it our own. My easel and paints and sewing machine and supply of paper will find it’s way back to me. Daughter’s doll house and zip car and pipe cleaners will land in her new playroom. Those cake pans and the immersion blender and all those fancy champagne flutes will be unwrapped and lined up neatly. Somewhere. Someday. Somehow.
Meanwhile we wait. We wait.
1. Daughter likes turbulence.
2. Catching up with Pinterest after two weeks away is fun, email is not.
3. Long walks on a secluded beach are good for the soul.
4. Humidity is good for the skin.
5. Coming home to your own bed, to your own kitchen and to your own dog is completely priceless.
I feel stuck.
In my writing.
I finished a wonderful class two weeks ago and I’ve barely written since.
I met with my amazing and talented writing group this weekend, and had only written a one page response to our Prompt. (And yes, that was the writing I spoke about up there in the third sentence.) Its not as if I haven’t had ideas. I have a list of things to write. I have words and phrases running through my mind all day.
I could blame it on the lack of time. I could blame it on the sun, that’s rising early, that’s waking the daughter way, way too early. But it’s the sun that I welcome as I open my eyes at 5 in the morning. So much easier to get up, out of bed and write when the sun is up. But then the sun crosses through the house and into the daughters room and Poof! She’s up. Just when I start to talk myself into crawling out of bed, I hear her door open and watch her walk into our room. Sometimes she’s still half asleep. Or like today, she’s got a bounce in her step and can’t wait to start chatting. Either way, I know I’m not writing.
And so we cuddle. We chat. We watch Bubble Guppies. And then we get ready for our day. I drop her at Preschool. I go to work. I (try) to workout at lunch. Or I work through lunch. And then I pick her up from Preschool. We make dinner. We wait for Husband to get home and we eat dinner. Then we walk Dog. She showers. She brushes. She cuddles. We read. We cuddle. We chat. She sleeps.
And then it’s 830 pm and I’m shot.
So, when again should I write? A writer friend said it just takes 20 minutes. Twenty minutes here. Twenty minutes there. Do that three times and it’s an hour. Three more times and it’s two. I can do that. Can I do that?
My Mom brought me a box full of family history this weekend. For years it sat in my Uncle’s garage. It’s filled with photos and other family memories, including a whole bag of photos of family in Denmark, with handwritten descriptions in Danish. I guess they’re from around 1930 or so, but I need to find a translator to really know.
The two photos above really caught my eye. The one of the left is of my Mom’s Mother. I have her name as my middle name and I’ve always felt a connection to her even though she passed away when I was a Toddler and we all say my sister looks just like her. On the front of the photo she wrote “Me.” on the back she wrote “Taken on the Mendota Bridge. I look a lot better than I felt.”
The photo on the right is of my Mom’s parents and her older brother. I love the joy in their faces and the white picket fence. Isn’t it beautiful?
Both photos are full of stories, don’t you think? I just need to find them.
I’ve been writing a lot lately. And reading about writing even more. As I struggled to get honest words on the page this week, I ran across these lines from Judith Barrington’s Writing the Memoir.
“For some reason particular to you and your life, you need to tell the truth. However, even if your need is the driving force, it may be helpful, when you hit a rough spot, to remember that other people, too, need you to tell the truth. Sometimes those who most need you to speak out are those very people who plead with you to keep the family secrets hidden.”
(Don’t worry Mom, I’m not spilling the beans. Yet.)
But have you read a memoir or an essay or a blog post that absolutely spoke to you? This is why. The truth. That writer was able to dig deep and pour their soul onto the page. I’m trying to do it. Really trying. I think it’s working.
If you want to read a book, or a blog, that really gets into the deep, check out Bloom and Enjoying the Small Things. Kelle is amazing. I want to be strong like her when I grow up.
Didn’t know where to put the heart garland from pARTy, so I wrapped it on the Bonsai.
Saturday morning I was driving north on the River Road and I saw the most amazing sight. It was the fourth or fifth day in a row where we woke to a thick fog, But this day, as I drove down the steep hill at Franklin Avenue, I noticed the fog had settled. There was a light coating of white on the road, the sidewalks, the grass, the trees. It hadn’t snowed. It appeared that the fog just settled where it was and remained. It was beautiful. I pulled over, crossed the street and wandered through the coated trees. There were groups of runners on the path and I was envious I wasn’t experiencing this while on a run, but glad I saw it just the same. As it happened, I was on my way to a newish Writing Group I joined last fall. One of the members read a lovely story about her mother’s last days and another member called part of it “Real World Magic.” I couldn’t help but think that was what I had seen that morning on the way in. It was magical. And it was real.
I’m taking on a photo challenge. A photo a day for the month of February hosted by the very lovely blog, Fat Mum Slim. The site is new to me, but I’m loving it. And now I’m motivated to take Fotos! I’d like most of the shots to be taken with my nice camera, the realist in me tells me that my trustly iphone will be more readily available. So, already lower expect ions. I’ll be posting as I go, maybe not every day because there’s so much to write about, but I’ll keep you in the loop.
sitting at my desk at work. My pens, my frame, my water (i love that cup), my screen, my post-its.
Visit Fat Mum Slim
to see all the other participants! And have fun.
The week of Holiday Decorations continues…. I’ve been seeing these Pomanders in Blogland and on Pinterest lately and knew I had to make a few. I actually hoped it was something Daughter could help me with, but it was tougher to poke the cloves into the oranges than I expected. (I did, however, get Husband to make one!) They smell and look great, now I just need to get me some holiday visitors.