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Posts Tagged ‘reflection’

‎I woke you up by singing ‘Happy Birthday’ in your ear. I could tell you weren’t all that impressed but a tiny bit of you, just enough of you, still thought it was amusing and let me continue through to the end.

Eleven.

Every year when you become another, even bigger number, I’m somehow surprised, like I didn’t see it coming. I don’t know why but every year it happens and every year I’m surprised.

This year I can’t seem to tie my thoughts into a neat bow. For some reason this year I’m not looking back at what has come before but am instead squinting my eyes tightly hoping for just a glimpse of what is coming in the road ahead, just a glimpse so I can prepare myself.

To be completely honest, I’m a little fearful of what is to come. Not because I think you are going to change into someone I can’t recognize, but rather because I don’t trust myself to be the person you need me to be while you figure out all the things you have to figure out.

Not unlike when you were born, I have a gnawing feeling in the back of my brain that I am sorely prepared for what is coming; a feeling that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing and that ultimately it will be you who ends up paying the price.

But I try. I try to temper all of that with my ‎ongoing attempt to live without expectations. When the thoughts come to me, as I lay my head down at night or come awake in the morning, I try to wipe them like chalk words on a blackboard. I don’t know what is to come, there is no way to know what is coming, and I will deal with it, you and I will deal with it, just as we have done for the past eleven years.

You and I.

Together.

Happy birthday Sweets.

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I was away for a little bit; off on a vacation on which I made the conscious decision to disconnect from all of the technology I normally drag around with me.  I didn’t take a phone, I didn’t take a laptop, I didn’t even take a little piece of paper with my passwords jotted down on it in case the desire struck me to log in, check up or connect.  I did cave and take a notebook and a pen with me, on the off chance that brilliance and genius would strike while I was sitting on the beach or lounging on our veranda, watching the sea go by.

I didn’t even take the notebook out of my suitcase.

I’ve been back for a few weeks now.  I’m now officially back into the routine of packing lunches and checking backpacks, going to work and coming home again, checking and filling up the calendar with places to go and things to do.  That whole “being away” thing now seems like a distant memory, something that happened to someone else that I heard about once.  And I’m okay with that.  Some people may like to be on vacation all the time but I think the only way I can actually appreciate being away, or alternately, being “here” is to only do it once in a while.  Which is good because that’s about all my bank account will allow.

So I was away and completely disconnected and now I’m back and almost fully plugged back in, except for one thing.

Writing.

It’s like I came back and got about 95% back into my “here” life but I just can’t seem to get back into the writing.  When I was away it was like a switch was flicked and I just stopped contemplating.  I stopped thinking about “what if” and “why” and “why me” and “why not me” and as those are what make up almost all of what I write about, it just didn’t even occur to me to pick up the pen.  And now that I’m back, I can’t seem to flick the switch back on.

I told my bestie I was waiting for inspiration to hit, as it always seemed to do in the past.  I’ve mentioned before that so much of what I write comes at me in an instant, like someone whispering in my ear “write about this” and so I do.

I’m not sure if the whispers have stopped or if I just can’t hear them.

I always thought I write because I need an outlet for all of the reflecting that I do; that the only way to clear up space inside my head is to get the thoughts out on paper so I can make room for more.  But these past few weeks I’ve begun to wonder if maybe it’s the other way around.

Maybe the reflecting doesn’t cause me to write; maybe the writing encourages me to reflect.

And I hope now that I’ve broken the barrier and put something, anything, out into the world that the flow will come, the reflecting will come, and I can once again feel connected to me, and to the words that make up such a big part of my world.

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‎The dishwasher hums.

The clothes are folded, still warm from the dryer, and I tuck the basket under my arm to carry up the stairs.

The lunches are packed, the backpacks sit by the door, the shoes are lined up on the mat.

The order forms for school pictures have been completed; boxes filled, cheques written, envelopes sealed.

The fish have been fed.

The door is locked.

The weight of the day has settled on my shoulders.

I make my way up the stairs and tiptoe into first one room and then the other.

The hair is brushed out of her eyes and a kiss placed softly on her cheek.

The radio is turned off, the blanket placed close enough for him to find it when he reaches out for it through the night, as I know he will.

I tiptoe back out, blowing each one last kiss.

The teeth are brushed, the face is washed, the lines around my eyes are examined.

The clothes are ironed and hung on the back of the door, waiting for tomorrow.

The feet are slipped under the blankets.

The alarm is set.

The glasses are put on the table where I can reach for them in the morning.

The head rests on the pillow.

A sigh escapes my lips as my hand reaches out and finds its home, wrapped in the warmth of another.

The day is done.

It will start all over again tomorrow but for right now, let’s turn out the lights and enjoy the stillness, whispering in the dark.

Good night.

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