Jules writes to ask where I’ve been and I’ve got no real excuse for not blogging. Well, actually, I have about 200 reasons, of which I’ll share just a few.
First, I’ve been watching so much television that revolves around cooking competition that I’ve decided I should rename my blog to UUmami. Whaddya think?
Second, my health. I’m fine. Really and honestly I am. I was diagnosed with a mild form of lupus in August which makes the rest of my life make total sense (the constant fatigue, mostly). Still, I’m avoiding thinking about it in any real and tangible way. The illness affects me mostly in my joints and the worst part of the day is the time between getting up and getting my nice, hot shower, which generally loosens things up enough to get me going. I continue to work; I continue to attend my children’s concerts and events; I basically keep going with all that I have been doing but I understand more fully that the truth of my life is this: I have two speeds, stop and go.
Third, we have become the parental taxi service we dreaded becoming. Eldest daughter will be eligible to get her driver’s license this week (how can that be!), but even so, she’s got herself scheduled up the wazoo, so I don’t know that we will ever be able to rely on her to help transport the sisters.
Finally, my work. This really is the main reason I don’t blog much any more. I have great work in a great institution that puts me in line to help some of the most amazing people in our faith tradition. I have been very busy, but I also feel like this blog can no longer be the vehicle for me to bellyache and moan.
You see, I think of the blog much as I used to think of my handwritten journal (something I don’t do at all anymore because, I think, of all the reason ennumerated above)–a place to be immediate and rash and sometimes blithely irresponsible. I vent, sometimes. I do. I haven’t yet decided what I will do with all the journals I wrote when my girls were young and I was the stay at home parent who really should have been working. I didn’t much like my life back then. It just took all these years to see it. I wrote frankly and honestly about how I felt IN THAT MOMENT. And then, when that moment passed, well, I usually went in and stroked my daughters’ heads, took a deep breath and loved parts of my life anew. But I never wrote about THAT. I only wrote about how much I HATED things (and people) and I vented all over the gosh-durn book. (I think I just decided it is best to burn these tomes.)
Unless you write, I don’t think you get that–that sometimes first writing is a visceral release of all that you can’t really say to anyone lest they think you are suicidal, homicidal, or just freakin’ nuts. Not really therapy, just a release of the PC valve so that you can then address the people in your life with a strong bit of sturdyness. This, of course, does not make sense, because this, of course, is first writing. I’m sleepy and heading to bed and I hope to welcome a silence as I sleep tonight that will bring me back to myself. And I write this with the full realization that my next move toward a lasting sanity is to open up a blank book and start filling it with the unexpressed venom of my psyche–just not here. Just like I don’t want my children to read what that was like, I don’t want to spew on about how tough my life is when, truly, it isn’t any tougher than the lives of a kabillion other people–in fact, it is much easier than 90% of those kabillion (if creature comforts are how we measure things). I just don’t want people to interpret how I feel IN THE MOMENT to be how I feel ALL THE TIME.
That’s all I’ve got. ‘Cept to say I’m so glad Chef Baldhead is off of America’s Next Top Iron Chef, or whichever show that was. This is uumami, over and, perhaps, out.