Stuck In The Mud
That feeling of spinning your wheels, your body rocking with the car thinking it’s going to help in your efforts to dislodge it. Wishing someone would come along to give you a push, yet recognizing that you haven’t seen another car for miles.
The karma truck is stuck in the mud. I think it’s ok though – either I’m on the verge of getting back on the road or I’m making peace with the fact that sometimes you just have to put the damn thing in park.
Why so stuck? Who knows really. A friend of mine was describing this blog to his wife and said I write about ‘all this touchy-feely stuff’. I explained how my initial motivation was to print out a year’s worth of posts and give them to my sons. Ok – it’s been a year and a half – now what? My intent is not to hand them a tome. I will never curate with the best of them, nor will I write with the best of them. My sister told me that writers have discipline – I’m sure she’s right – she’s a truly outstanding writer. I don’t think of myself as a writer – I feel like I’m more of a gusher, spewing forth foam and fluff and occasionally a stream of water that catches the light. So you can see why I’m a little mired. What is this blog to be now? I’m trying to figure that out. Filter out all the nonsense and distill my thoughts down to the most basic. What do I want this to be?
“I do not know much about God and prayer, but I have come to believe, over the last twenty-five years, that there’s something to be said about keeping prayer simple. Help. Thanks. Wow.” — Anne Lamott. The woman is onto something. [If you have never treated yourself to a book by Anne Lamott, please give yourself that gift]. Getting to the fundamentals. Every morning when I’m out with the Sirs, there is a silent exchange between me and the stars. First I whisper my gratitude, for to neglect to recognize what I have been given is folly and hubris and stupid. The list is long. Then I quietly marvel – how can you not marvel at a sky wallpapered with stars? Or the words “I love you”? Puppy licks (even from an especially mischievous one). The intensity of the yellows and the oranges that inform the landscape on the mountain? And finally, I say “Please”. And I cry. Every time I consider the request, I cry. I feel a little like Holly Hunter‘s character in “Broadcast News“. My therapeutic cry.
Am I sad? No. By the time I get to ‘please’, I’m overwhelmed.
And so we come full circle…I am more than shmaltz and less than Dostoevsky. I am sitting in ‘park’ despite an urge to rock this baby out of the muck. I’m old enough to know that we all have moments like these and young enough to feel impatient and itchy. It feels good to write this to you. It’s been too long.