So last week I wrote about how I was choosing silence a little bit, and I am, still, but–I also am feeling this nice little pull towards this blog but totally unsure what to write about. This happens a lot to me. I kind of want to just settle in to this blog like it’s a comfy chair–no no, a welcoming zafu, rather–but then the words don’t come. So I had this idea that I would just throw out all the words. You know, the ones swirling around in my head as I try to meditate, as I fall asleep, as I pretend to be present with my kid, as I manage to be present with my kid, as I teach, walk, love, be, do.
Black flies, buttercups, two butterflies flying out of jars this week, one I was sure would be dead, but wasn’t, L’s desire lately to put in jars every creature the yard will throw at him: roly polys, caterpillars, earthworms, three salamanders under a rock last week, rock me to sleep, meditate with me, I should meditate more, I should meditate at all—no shoulds—my to-do list for today (send out an essay I have been writing for a month and really really think is good, take that big faithful leap and email it off, fingers crossed; blog; blog about poetry; grade papers, check in on classes; grocery shop, pay bills, try to buy a house, email Amelia to see how she’s doing; pick up L and his friend R at three, keep them safe and happy; play music tonight with the Buddha, every Thursday night—wait, laundry—return library books—wrap my head around the weekend—have M. call the landlady’s lawyer, who is sending us threatening notes) and sometimes I want to say no to it all, but it will never change, these words and these lists and this to-do-ness, will always be just. Like. This.