Before yesterday, it had been about 7 weeks since I posted here. And really, it had been 7 weeks since I’d written anything for myself.
I entered a crazy busy period at work in the lead up to a big event. I was working kong hours, every night and some on the weekends. When I wasn’t working, I commuted to work or spent time with the family or, when lucky, got some sleep.
Then I spent 8 days out of the country at a work event.
Then, I crashed.
I slept a lot. Jet lag was a factor. But I had no mojo. I coasted for a couple of weeks, mostly checked out of any personally creative work. I had flashes of wanting to write, at inopportune times. I ignored them. Blah.
A wise friend reminded me today that, like him, I need to writing to generate the ideas. It’s a circle. As I lay in bed and write my second post, I know he’s right.
Perhaps I needed the recharge. I have to shut down in order to ramp back up. Let’s ramp.
When you have one child, every first is also your last. You may not know it at the time. You may hope desperately for seconds. You may not get them.
And so your first “terrible twos” or “fucking fours” will be all you get. Your last baby words – the ones that hang on after all the others go by the wayside – will really be your last.
That could motivate you, as it does me, to not correct the pronunciation errors or grammar mistakes. They’re just so damn cute, and they won’t come around again.
So, no, I’m not correcting my son when when he says, “you have to be be careful,” because I love that he thinks ‘be careful’ is like its own word. And I don’t want to tell him the word is tent, not stent. It’s cuter his way. It’s his last vestiges of his toddler-ness, his learning to communicate like a big boy. And I’m hanging on to each moment because they will be the last.
The words and colors on my sign bled down the page from the rain. It held together for as long as possible but tore and easily fell off the wooden post in time to be thrown into a garbage can before the rally was complete.
I was in Walnut Creek, California, one of three nearby marches and certainly the smallest. It was huge in spirit. The kindness was palpable. Truly. We stood in mud as the rain fell down, and we all smiled at one another, admiring the creative signs, the funny ones, the angry ones. The ones held by men, boys in solidarity.
I had to leave to pick up my son before the march was done. I wish I could have stayed. I felt a part of something important. I would do it again. I feel I might have to.
I hadn’t known previously there would be marches all over the world. That’s beautiful. This video from Lily Allen brought tears to my eyes as so many things do these days.
“I’m going to a town that has already been burnt down … I’m so tired of you, America.” Rufus Wainwright
How does it make you feel? Helpless? Hopeful?
I am gathering and marching for kindness and choice. For freedom and peace. I am marching for love. Love trumps hate. I am gathering and marching with other women with the spirit of a million women who are doing the same in their cities, with their viewpoints and their hearts.
I am marching for me, you, our children and their future. Because it is important and it is a simple thing I can do.
It was my trip to Romania in April 2005. It shows what city I was in an any given day. An 8-day trip. To Romania. From the Czech Republic. Solo.
The train ride there was the scariest part. The sketchy / threatening Romanian train conductor. The fear of sleeping alone on an overnight train. The Roma beggars clawing at me; yelling at me because I had unknowingly given her begging daughter moldy bread. Feeling lonely and unsure. Cracking up while having a chance to steer a horse-drawn cart down a country road. Relief at finding English speaking tourists with whom I could relax.
Those are the memories that have stuck with me. Less prominent are my feelings as I wandered through the old castle where Vlad the Impaler walked. Less prominent are the images at which I stared in the painted monasteries of Bucovina.
This old calendar has been sitting in a slot on my desk for 10 years. Even that, more than one year after I returned to the US. I must have taken it out at some point after I moved in to this home. Why?
Was I going to write about it and ended up procrastinating for 11 1/2 years? Yikes. I shouldn’t say that out loud.
Is it there to serve as my reminder of the adventurous soul I used to be and the risks I used to take?
Is it meant to tell myself that although, no, I’m not taking any grand trips any time soon, I sure did live, didn’t I? Jeez, what am I, 90 years old!
None of these sound like the right excuse. But here I sit with a paper monthly calendar folded open to the April 2005 page. Its always been folded back this way.
There are a few events on the March 2005 page. Even fewer on May 2005.
We don’t often know where we are going. But we sure know where we’ve been. (Yes, if you’re paying attention, I just dropped a Whitesnake lyric.)