Creaking Back Still

Ugh, I'm so rusty, rusty, rusty, and I even fell off the wagon yesterday after only two days, and it's 12:34 right now, which means it's technically tomorrow already, and the truth is I really don't know what to write about. It's not because I can't write--it's because I have been writing, but not about me, and I'm just not in that zone right now, and I feel like my brain can only do so much writing in one day, and I'm not sure what to do about it. I do think that part of the way I am feeling is because I let myself slide so far off the path, and I am hoping that if I claw my way back on, tooth and nail, I'll find my way again.

So what to say? For one, tomorrow I will write my sevenhundredfiftywords during daylight hours, that is for sure. I guess I have been thinking all day long about the concept of balance. The last few days have been such a mix for me of real, down-in-the-trenches physical work and real, down-in-the-trenches intellectual work, and I feel like a heightened version of myself, if that makes any sense, sort of like I am operating--at least for this short spell--at a greater capacity than I usually do.

Although I am explaining this in such an awkward, knuckleheaded way, this is a good thing. As you may know, I have a bit of a hang-up about how lazy people are--of course I mostly mean me, but I also mean people in general. We use such a small part of ourselves, I fear, and I worry that it is not just a myth that we shut down even more parts of ourselves as we age, narrowing our interests and activities to a safe and shopworn few. Or at least it seems to me that lots of us do.

So when I have a long two days that involve painting a room and weeding a garden and hauling furniture, as well as an intense conversation with a mentor about early childhood education and research into a corner of history I'm realizing I've always neglected and writing for hours in that rare way that makes me forget about time, I defy these fears, show myself that I don't have to be complacent and predictable. There is also something, I think, to the notion that humans need a balance of the body and mind--that is where I started, and I see now I went off on a tangent about laziness, but both points are valid, and not unrelated.

See? I'm out of practice. But with a little luck, tomorrow will be just a smidgen easier.

Just Saying

So yesterday I drove to the library in our little town, as I've been doing pretty much every day for the last four or five weeks, and was surprised to find the parking lot pretty full, considering it was about 4:30 in the afternoon on a day when the library closes at 5. Before I had kids I used to sometimes, when I was in the right frame of mind, park deliberately far from the entrance of my eventual destination, just like my grandfather used to do. He did this, I am told, because he figured the extra walk, short as it may be, was a good thing. Averse to suburban car culture as I am, I like this mentality--and the concept of these secret little personal refusals to play into a system you do not admire. But that being said, with an independent five-year-old and a squirmy, would-be runaway of a one-year-old, these days I mostly get as close as I can. Which--although I was alone--was the mindset I was still in when I pulled into the library parking lot.

I looped a circle, then returned to a spot I'd seen pretty near the front doors. It looked tight, but although I am a mediocre driver at best, parking is my forte; I take pride in my ability to slide into spots and parallel into impossible ones. I can do this, I thought. I turned in, put my foot on the brakes at just the right moment, and turned off the car, pleased with myself. It appeared I was centered perfectly between the cars on either side of mine. And then, I opened my door, slowly, so as to avoid hitting the car on my left with it, and realized there was not enough space for me to actually get out of the car. I tried to squeeze through but to no avail. Now angry with myself, I maneuvered my way back into the driver's seat, turned on the engine, and found another spot on the other side of the lot.

Why I am I telling you this? Because as I was stomping out of the car once I was finally able to open the door it occurred to me that I need to be more watchful of my tendency to do this, to focus single-mindedly on some goal or another, ignoring the context, the consequences--all of the possible ones. The best spot in the lot is meaningless, in other words, if you can't get outside to go where you're going.

That's all.

Back in Black? On Track? Whatever.

You know how sometimes you wake up in the morning and it's as though the previous month, or even, say, five weeks, just sort of disappeared on you? No? Well, it might happen to you someday, and if it does, I will be a sympathetic ear. What is that famous quote, it's by some guy whose name sounds like Elvis but isn't? Never explain. Your friends don't care, and your enemies won't believe you anyway. Or something like that. I'm going with the guy whose name sounds like Elvis on this one. All I will say is: I'm back.

Having said that, I feel as though expectations may be high. If you've wondered where I've been, why I haven't been writing this blog (and let me just say, as a person who loathes a red herring, hates a teaser: there is no big secret here, just a mad confluence of full time summer vacation children, disorienting country living, cleaning, exhausting and exhilarating work writing, knuckle-scraping gardening, house-bound dogs and exhaustion), you might be hoping for a splash of a re-entry, a dramatic appearance from a hidden perch offstage. The written version, if you will, of the scene you have surely seen me do from my Nutcracker days (especially if you have been in my presence after I've consumed more than two glasses of wine) when I emerge, arms outstretched, into indoor falling snow and connect with the audience in wonder and sheer delight. But my re-entry, like my life, is late and scattered and all over the place. It doesn't arc nicely like a novel, have perfect edges like a professional paint job, swoosh free throws without so much as hitting the rim. But it is here, and it will move forward, and, like me, it will try even harder tomorrow.

Good night. I'm glad to be back.