Thursday, October 11, 2018


More often than not, my impulse is to write. I like to get all the facts down, recorded... the names of people and the dates of events, the order in which we went from here to there and why we went, for what. It's irresistible to me, this journal, my blog. My favorite posts to go back and read are the stories, the long narratives with emotion and reactions, with my earnest attempts to recreate the vivid little moments that I hope to recall, always. Sometimes, though, I rely on lists... quick impressions, notes-to-self.

I want to write all about family visiting from Wisconsin, and our preparations, about Robert from Malawi, and his first time at the ocean, any ocean. I want to document Maker Faire, and not leave out any of the anecdotes and happy impressions, the gratifying way it lifted my spirits, shielded me from outside news and headlines, how I made new friends, felt the connection and kindness and worth of engaging, giving, receiving. I want to share hard and sad events, the things that keep me awake, the weight on our shoulders, and how we cope... how we try to cope. I want to shut out the hate and fears, the worries I have, and just look at pretty pictures, tell pretty stories, make pretty plans.

This is my favorite time of year. These days are good, yet mad with disruption, portentous, and the foreboding wants to taint the beauty, the hope I try to foster. I want to write about that, with the secret longing that words, insights, trepidations, and ideals will shield us, make right, change the course from disquiet and despair, to influence, regard, resolve, understanding, love. That would be a lot of words, a lot of unraveling feelings and thoughts.

Sometimes I cannot write everything down, make the strong emotions into reason, grammar, sentences. Sometimes I just want to paint, or cry, dig, watch chickens.

This is my favorite time of year, and I'm thinking of loved ones, and feeling sentimental and thankful, and very concerned about the world.