If we were having coffee, I’d start by saying that I missed having coffee with you last weekend. I’d hope you’d understand that I took the week off to concentrate on achieving a personal writing goal. I was involved in a marathon, drafting, revising, rewriting, revising, revising, polishing, polishing, and finally submitting.
If we were having coffee, I’d tell you that having coffee wasn’t the only thing I set aside. I’m behind in my blogging, and not just Weekend Coffee Share. Other projects, writing and otherwise, were set aside while I focused on that story (I only had a month between learning of the contest and submitting to it). Now, I’m gradually resuming a more typical writing flow, and that makes me feel content and settled, ready to take on some of the less creative administrative details that are a necessary part of life.
If we were having coffee, I’d tell you that I needed a few days of rest. I played a lot of Spider Solitaire, and a lot of Cake Mania 3. I took my daughter thrift store shopping, and to buy a new goldfish, Beauty, to replace Goldie, who died a week or so before. I’d tell you that Beauty was dead by the next morning, and that there hasn’t been much talk of another – fish deaths can be painful when you’re eleven and a half. Hugs and fishy funerals help, but the sorrow lingers. Later in the week, we went out to our local Stewart’s shop for breakfast. I’ve known the store manager since we were children; we’re obliquely related through marriage – my aunt and her mother were sisters. We sat in a booth next to a former sixth-grade teacher I never much liked. My daughter would have been in a sixth grade classroom in the same school system, on Friday morning, except that we’ve decided to travel a different road, and so she’s never gone to school, and is free to spend her mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights orchestrating her own life, and learning more widely and broadly than school walls allow for.
If we were having coffee, I’d chuckle and shake my head at the strangeness of familiarity. I’ve traveled the country. I’ve lived in at the edge of the Grand Canyon, in the heart of Yellowstone, and in the Everglades. I’ve lived (and plan to live again, in another year or two) in Oregon’s Willamette Valley. And so here I am, living in the same small town where I grew up, on the same road I lived on as a child, in a house owned by a woman who sold it to us because she remembered the little girl with long blonde hair I used to be.
If we were having coffee, I’d tell you that I live 300 yards from my parents, and in a different world. It might as well truly be another planet. The dysfunctions that led to a volatile and abusive childhood are still there, still unresolved. I’ve chosen a different road there, too. While I wish things could be different, I don’t wish it enough to sacrifice the peace and joy of the life we have here in our shabby little home.
If we were having coffee, I’d tell you that this isn’t the direction I expected this post to take, but that I enjoyed allowing it to unfurl as it would. That’s always once of the joys of writing for me; the bits and pieces of myself that come together in mysterious ways.
If we were having coffee, I’d tell you that it’s been a quiet Sunday that seems perfect for such musings. I spent hours watching PBS – for me, output needs input. Sometimes a lot of input about bioluminescent animals, snub-nosed monkeys,the Civil War, and how Theodore Roosevelt became President. I’d tell you that I’m feeling happy, and ready to join my writing friends for a night of creation and communion.
If we were having coffee, I’d tell you it’s time for me to go, and direct you to Part Time Monster’s Weekend Coffee Share. And, of course, I’d wish you all a week full of the very loveliest of chaos!