I have no words, really

And yet I write.  This from December, still unfinished.



It grows increasingly harder to post anything as words continue to fail me.

There is so much tenderness and heartache and love and spirit alive here, wherever this is, this place that is as real to me as anything I know to be real.

I cried a lot of slow tears today, feeling raw. Sharing some personal woes with my kids, missing my husband, who's travelling for work, glad to have my kids, my dog, here with me in front of the fireplace, music streaming from the 70's, the kids napping, me reading, reading, reading, until my heart aches.

Christmas alone is its own misery, but this gray and foggy December is breaking my heart.

I talked to my kids tonight, quizzed them about what's going on in the world.

We are killing our selves in the streets. Over color, or a coat, or nothing at all.

Hundreds of children gunned down in their school today in Pakistan, over reasons centuries old, men killing children and themselves wantonly. Sorrow upon sorrow, eye for an eye, forever and ever amen.

The Russian economy is collapsing. I just read somewhere that the root cause of all wars is hunger and I think of this, add it to my worry list, the messes of the world.

Congress inserted unimaginable special interest bullshit into the budget right under our dumb ass noses. I can't even express my disgust and disillusionment with this perversion of democracy.

Too much again, December. At least no tsunamis, no massive tragedies, just a million small ones.

It was too much.

We got take out pizza and cranked up the music and hung out, and it was perfect and I noticed.  They napped, one on the couch, one at my feet in front of the fire with the dog and I read. There are these small moments of grace, and in Kurt Vonnegut's honor, I wish I could remember to say during them - if this isn't nice, I don't know what is.

I read dear Mary Moon's blog about cooking for Katherine, sitting and visiting with her and Bug, with Katherine growing weaker but ever more radiant. Katherine wrote about these past few days in her post too, about the pleasure of being read to by Mary,  her thoughts so warm and loving and accepting. I immediately wanted to read the same stories and went through the shelves and found three anthologies of  American essays. On my way to the author Kathleen requested, my book fell open to an excerpt from Joan Didion's Slouching toward Bethlehem, which cracked me wide open in my college years. I read that first. She wrote with such love about her daughter, in a time when she could barely conceive surviving her loss, or her husband's, which she wrote so honestly about in Magical Thinking.

It made me sadder than I can say.

“The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.” 
― Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem

Presentiment of loss. And oh, she had no idea what she had left to endure, did she? That line broke me.

I sat in my chair, a book in my lap, looking at my two sleeping children, as scared for them now as they are about to try and make their way alone in this world as I ever was when they were little babies in their cribs, likely more so. But I felt comforted by our being together, for now, protected by a fierce, fluffy dog who wants to play. In the now, we are ok, and that should be enough, for now. I wish it was, because if I let my mind go it races to a dark place to worry about what lies ahead for them, for all our babies in a crazy crowded world.  Breathe, Mel. Breathe. 

I thought about loss and love and grace, and thought to get back to that essay that Mary read to Kathleen, because I knew it would be good.

But first, I needed to read the post I wouldn't read a few hours ago, on Kathleen's page. I knew whatever it was, it wasn't good news, but I wasn't ready to think of a world without her in it just yet.

Mary wrote a beautiful post about Kathleen's last day, a fitting eulogy to a fine person. This ain't her first rodeo, losing a dear friend, but she does it with grace and love. I'm so glad to have met and know all these kind souls I've found online. Words can't convey.

When my husband got home, I told him we lost a blogger friend today, and he understood why I was a little sad beneath my smile.




So it's been three weeks since I started this post I didn't finish. No time like the present.

I've survived Christmas, New Years, the world is still spinning and I'm still trying to find the words.

I've written several posts and a ton of comments in my head.  I've cried more slow tears, and smiled a lot too. My husband says I'm hormonal, and yes, among other things.

We rode all over the middle and southeastern US of A and lived to tell the tale. 3334 miles. I still don't want to get back in the car. Hopefully, if technology stops biting my ass, I can post some pictures from that adventure. It was mostly lovely. If you facebook me, you got the highlights.

Thinking kindly of my internet friends, both here and gone now, and hoping for a year that has many more moments of grace than heartache for us all.

xo