I never write.
I have things I might like to write about but I do not get it done.
So when this anniversary of my life in Oregon arrived I felt like ... why bother. I don't have anything new to say about life here. I still love my nest. I'm still ambivalent about Hood River although there are things I like. It's a very beautiful place.
There are more books on the shelves in the library but it is still true that if you move a chair you see either an empty shelf or a box full of junk I need to sort through. I spend lots of time moving books around.
But I don't write.
There are lots of recommendations for how to get back to writing. None of them ring for me. One is simply -- butt to chair. This one is kind of ironic. I bought this really beautiful desk chair. It was pricey. And so uncomfortable. I kept thinking it would get better. I'd break it in. It just got worse. For years I've spent hours in front of the computer. For years. But after the chair I could barely sit for minutes. I finally gave up on it and pulled my old one out of storage.
So here I am. Butt to chair.
Blogging has always been an attempt at conversation for me. I'm always hoping for some kind of response. Back in the day I blogged toward conversations that were happening in other blogs and never quite felt heard. I made myself a little crazy. A lot crazy.
In April I tried to do the poem Tweeting thing. Not many people seemed to notice. I was purposefully picking obscure poets and abstract lines. Which might have been why there wasn't much response. I didn't make it through the month.
Last year after the poem Tweeting I did the little story project, which led to working on the book. It was a surge. A surge that fell flat. The printed out book sat on my desk for months. Then I put in the closet.
Here I am. Six years into life in the Hood. I go to doctor appointments. Lots of doctor appointments. I don't think I'm aging well. It's never anything that serious. Just a million little things.
I swim.
I read.
I don't have enough fun.
I never write.
This is probably where I'm supposed to resolve to write more.
Well.
I just don't know.
I think about it all the time.
Last night I finished the very lovely Patricia Hampl book: The Florist's Daughter. It starts and ends in the hospital where she is holding the hand of her mother who is dying. She lets go of the hand to lie down for a bit. In that sort moment her mother is gone. I read this in the room where I went through the same thing. I was holding the mommie's hand and stopped to rest and then she was gone.
It didn't exactly make me sad. I'm always a little sad about it, But I wasn't made more sad by the book. I was actually a little mad. I didn't think I would be smashed into the memory. I thought I was going to be reading about flowers. That room is consecrated.
Six years.
A moment.
And they are gone.