Hello, reader.
Kind of you to stop in.
I haven’t visited myself much lately. Been feeling more…private. Maybe it is a bit of whiplash from the speed of social media, maybe it’s a season or something else; I’m not sure. But I’m keeping words closer. I don’t go out as much anymore and I am thankful for this. Maturity or fatigue? Conversations keep more of a reality to them. Though the other week an old friend from VA came through town for a Friday night and we ended up in an alley with some of my friends, dancing in a spray painted square on the asphalt before hitting one last night spot, where the entire (and I mean ENTIRE) crowd broke into a spontaneous sing-a-long of the Cardigans’ “Lovefool” even as the bouncers turned the lights on and ushered patrons out the doors. It was the loveliest bit of fluff.
My new awesome job has me working nonstop (she says, as she pauses between emails to write this post) and my big trips start next week when I fly to Dallas. The next three months are straight gameface time. I’m already tired just in the preparation but I’m thoroughly enjoying what I do. It has pulled me away from writing, but I think I’m just using that as an excuse. Writing scares me as much as it saves me. It calls out to others in the storm while forcing me to realize the storm exists.
My sweet Patsy Cline had puppies two weeks ago. This was unexpected, shocking, miraculous, totally gross and several other words associated with the miracle of life. I’ve drafted a post on this, roughly entitled “What to Expect When Your Whore Dog Is Expecting” but that is for another blog site. I’ll let you know if it comes out funny. I don’t tend to be funny in writing; don’t know how to translate the timing required for humor into paragraph form.
There is more, as there is every spring. I’m basking in the drama-free, in the regretless day, in the intentional and the lovely. I spend part of my day staring at 6 sleeping puppies. Life in abundance.
“April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.” –E. St.V. Millay, Song of Second April, v1
