So I had my summer all planned. Heather graduates: Check. Heather gets wisdom teeth removed: Check. Heather schedules knee surgery to clean up a torn meniscus, and I schedule to take a week off for her recovery, with plans to work on a wedding dress for her older sister: Check. Right before my birthday, all my planning took a detour. I know people think I'm being flip when I say that life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans, but it's just a variation of the old Irish saying, "If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans." Well, I guess He's laughing up a storm. Momma's cancer is back, with a vengeance, and has moved into her lungs. I convinced her to seek treatment here, and I'm in the process of moving her in with me. And that week off? I bought the material. I'll get started on the dress later. I will get it done. But I have other things to take care of as well, and I'm determined not to let things get me down. So what if none of this is what we planned. We'll get through it, and we'll make the best of it, some way, somehow.
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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