It occurs to me that I haven’t been doing much writing or journaling lately, here or elsewhere, my posts mostly photographs or descriptions of things. (Perhaps you are all thankful for that – I do go on about things, sometimes.)
I have to admit that I’ve been in a weird place for a while, and my constant self-examination was becoming tiresome (to myself; perhaps to you too).
The rain has returned after two glorious weeks of uninterrupted sun. It trickles and shooshes, somewhere between mist and shower. It calms, sometimes. Certainly it inspires me to stay indoors, though during the week I have no choice but to go out into it. I tell myself I won’t melt, but the moisture is effusive – it permeates everything. (Enough about rain, already.)
It’s quiet in here this morning. Earlier, as I lay in bed and was going through email messages on my smart phone and started link hopping, I eventually arrived at this post.
It is beautiful and simple and touching. Something that I don’t seem to be able to evoke when I write lately, so I’ve chosen to give it a rest. Mostly because if I can’t write something gorgeous and moving (and definitively lacking in despondency), why bother writing at all?
When I write, it feels like one long and wailing lament. But then… but then I think I can’t be the only one to feel this way, to feel the contraction and the need to pull myself in, the need to contain myself, because overflowing is just dangerous and wreaks havoc. Better to let things settle and reach coherence, to harden like a diamond.
So I see, and I notice, and I rejoice in little bits, by giving hand wrought things and smiles, by being present with those who surround me, by being attentive to the rain tapping at the eaves.