In the past year or so, keeping a blog or writing a story has been intermittent and occasionally brain-draining work. But it's just words, you say. Why should words be so difficult? We use them every day.
But words can only say so much. They say so little.
Monday, my house became someone else's house. A couple years ago, that might have been traumatic. Now, though, it's a relief, the release of a tether keeping me from walking new paths. Some time when I least expect it, the right words will come to describe what's going on in my head. For now, "relief" and "freedom" are the two words that chase each other across my thoughts.
As for new paths to walk, I've made no career moves yet or been on exotic travels, but am living simply with family. I'm typing this post while my littlest niece sits on my knee and draws on a sticky note in the space between the edge of the desk and the laptop. She occasionally pokes the pencil between my fingers, and sometimes stabs them in her wobbling coordination, trying to get me to draw pictures for her to scribble on or "improve". She's my buddy.
She's telling her oldest sister, "Typin' a boot." Typing a book.
I don't mind the transition from living alone to living in an energetic household. People predicted I'd hate it, that I'd go crazy; I was prepared for some negative reactions, and all has not been sweetness and light and perfection, but I wouldn't change a thing. Is there a word for that?
