I found this quote from another lovely blogger, and it sums up why I write here just about perfectly:
We write to taste life twice -- once in the moment and once in retrospection. -- Anais Nin
Today was one of those days that was busy and normal and unremarkable overall. But it was still a day lived. Still a gift to unwrap, opening in beautiful, ordinary moments that sparkled in the sun before slipping into yesterday and yesterday and yesterday, buried until perhaps forgotten.
Unless I write them down.
::It is still dark when I wake up. Of course it is. But nothing pulls me out of bed other than my own desire to be up -- no alarm, no child -- and it isn't even a terribly early hour. A very regular time. When Normal People start their days. This makes me smile -- Normal? -- eyes crinkling against the sleep still stuck in the corners of my eyes. I take the one remaining muffin all to myself and fill my mug with coffee. In silence. And I watch the sun rise for a few minutes, fire behind the dark sentinel shapes of the trees, before anyone needs me for anything. Namaste, I whisper to the newborn light. Namaste.
::We walk in the door after a windy, chilly park outing. I take off my jacket and am cold in my thin cotton shirt. Cold in my socks on the bare floor. Cold cold cold to my core. So I put on a sweatshirt and a vest and slippers and heat some tea. I sit down and listen to the Littles play. Watch the sun turn off and on as the clouds pass through on their way to Somewhere. And slowly, slowly, the fire spreads from my middle to my toes, from my chest to my fingers, until I'm warm. Rekindled.
::We're driving home from dance class. Eldest is a talker. Always has been. A constant stream of narration and reminiscence and speculation and sometimes even passionate remonstrance. There's a fair bit of repitition but I'm working hard to stay here and hear everything she says. Sometimes I have to work against rolling my eyes. Other times she knocks my socks off with some stained glass shard she seems to just find in the gravel. Today it is this: we're talking about her homework reading, and I remind her that the teacher said she can read silently if she wants, rather than aloud to a parent. She remembers the time she threw a huge fit about reading to me. Then wonders aloud why she got so upset about something like that. I remind her that it was very upsetting and important to her at the time. Still, she says, it seems silly to scream about. She grows and moves on and can even look back with clear hindsight. She's learning more than how sentences fit together to form a story, it seems.
::It's the end of the day. I'm done working and my eyes are crossing. I wish my contacts were already out and my teeth already brushed. That I already went to the bathroom and changed into my pajamas. And especially, that I already wrote a Really Great blog post. Because right now, I have nothing to say. I try to continue my story, but it comes out uninspired at best. I close my notebook. Then notice the quote I posted next to the computer. The one about why I write. And so I forget about Really Great and just write. And what comes out is good enough. For me.
