Trying

(Written 1 Year Ago. I'm slow, I guess you could say.)

I’ve decided that I want to start...this. This thing called 'blog.' It’s, I guess you could call it, a resolution of sorts. But this is not a quick, easy and abrupt decision. Not at all: it’s been incubating and gestating for some time now. I’ve come to this crossroads in my reflecting and discipline in writing and I’ve decided – I blame technology. It’s such a difficult decision, isn’t it? Do I write in my journal? Do I blog? Do I say my thoughts aloud and then transcribe them? Oy.

And because I haven’t decided either way, I just haven’t written. I’ve stalled, become dumb, mute, lost years to the abyss by unexamined living. Of course, I admit, this isn’t the only factor to be considered. I believe there are two other major reasons. (And probably lots of ‘reasonettes,’ but we’ll leave them unexamined for now...to continue on a theme. ha.)

#1 – Who Cares? Not me, do I? And probably not you. It started during my second year in the city: I got beat down. I was overwhelmed; I felt restless and unsure how to use my time. See, my life is defined by inconsistency and I never have two weeks ever the same. I never know what one week will be like until I’m in the middle of it. Despite my best attempts to build the walls and highways of “Structure” into my life, grass grown paths, soft and fluid plans and Romantic, overgrown garden days are my lot instead. (This doesn’t bode well for a highly competitive, productivity-loving Type Bish A)

I AM thankful, mind you, and know the Plan is unfolding as it should, but when structure elludes you completely, you get sort of lost and when you get lost you get to feeling helpless.

So…the helplessness (which is probably only in my head) and the feeling lost and the hide-and-go seek structure: all these equal the ‘who cares.’ A shade of quitting seems to color the world, but the quiet quitting, not the real quitting – the kind that made Mark Twain say, “Men die at 27, we just bury them at 72.” That kind.

But may I say, the most dangerous kind of quitting. Because you can continue to go through the motions and just mark the heart part. But by writing this, admitting it, I’m saying, “I care. I haven’t quit, you see. No. I’ve encountered the temptation, feel it’s tentacles’ tickle and I say no.”

I’m trying and this bliggity blog is a bold step of defiance. Perhaps that’s an overstatement, but only in the seen. The Unseen declares it deeply profound.

AND none of this masquerading of true risk taking either; another part in this “who cares.” In the year she died, my Nana, from her recliner, said of the suicide bombing-inclined types, “there’s nothing you can do to stop them. You’ll never change their minds. They’re just stark raving mad, Elizabeth Anne.”

That was sad to me. I remember thinking, “Nana has grown too old and finds engaging with the world for the sake of change just no longer possible