Home sick = time to write, it seems.
I hadn’t realized it, but I’ve had this blog for … more than 11 years. Yes, it’s sat largely abandoned since the summer after grad school, and I do occasionally re-commit myself to it, for at least those thirty minutes I think I have time to say something.
I feel the emptiness in those convictions at the moment. I know how my life will take over, and I won’t write, because I won’t take time to be quiet enough to think. How I’ll run on fumes and stress until I collapse, and then there’s no time. There are so many things that are missing from life just now that were a permanent fixture in 2001 when I started this blog. I was still singing regularly then. In fact, I had just been to New York on a choir trip two months before. I sang at the High Holy Days services still. The previous summer I’d gotten my first apartment. I lived alone.
There’s more reminiscing to be done here. But now it is, like it always is: I write, and life decides it’s time for me to do something else. This time, my child (nearly 4 now) has decided to lay out a picnic for us this afternoon, and has raided the picnic basket for silverware and the refrigerator for fruit.
There are worse reasons to end a blog post.