Why this blog?
February 1, 2013
I wish I had a compelling and convincing answer to that question, but honestly I don’t.
I’ve picked up a book that tells me the voice inside my head is not me as it blathers on and on like this: “It’s time to leave. Herb’s already at church. It’s too early. I don’t like to arrive until people are settled. But what will I do in the meantime? I’ll wash out this pan and clean the sink. Better wear an apron. You’ll need more hand lotion. This stove is a mess. Herb keeps forgetting to clean it. You don’t have time to clean the stove. Come on, you have to go. Did you lock the door? Careful! Ice! What have the birds done to the car! Yuck! Look at the hood! The windshield is a mess. I’ll have to stop at the car wash.”
How exhausting! I’m sure glad that voice isn’t me!
At one level of consciousness it is me, but not the “soul” me, the solid “I am!” Instead I’ve described an internal monologue of conflict that may or may not be reliable. The narrative could run silently, beneath the surface, but for me that narrative wants an audience for reasons I don’t understand.
My husband has had cardio-vascular disease for twenty-four years. He’s ten years older than I am. He’s wearing out. He’s more distracted than usual. He’s often confused and frustrated by his waning mental acuity and physical strength. He wishes he could be more and do more. I sometimes feel like his dart board, but above all, he’s a dear, sweet man — beloved and admired.
Last week he made me a handsome wall hanger for my necklaces. He repairs broken toys. He builds bird houses. He is writing a book. He nurtures plants in our greenhouse. He mentors student teachers for the university. He’s a church elder. He gives wise counsel to our children. He is generous and unassuming, and independent to a fault.
If only I could deny what is happening before my eyes: “Damn! what is the word? I get so tired of this. It’s a thing, a whirligig, something that spins, a…you know…out there…you know….damn!” he sputters and shakes his head and gives up.
I’d like to write about natural beauty and art, about growing things, not dying things. I’d like to look forward, not back, but when the future cannot be managed with earthly five year plans because anything could happen, it’s time to consider what is immediately vibrant and worthy.
I’m owning up to inevitable changes. We are never alone, but sometimes I grope about in a private darkness of anxiety and uncertainty. I wish to be brave and dependable, wise and hopeful, amusing and friendly. Don’t we all?
I’ve decided to pick one word from the above list — brave. At least today. I’m going to be brave and tell our story. Week by week. Maybe our story will resonate with someone else.
Our friends are private people. Our children won’t want publicity. I’ll do my best to protect our dear ones from Hollywood scouting agents when they come knocking at our doors — think, Julia and Julia. Fat chance! We haven’t a thing to worry about, not on that score. I might burn the beef stew, but I sure wouldn’t write about it!