Tonight I’ve come here to write in between wiping the constant runny nose of a seriously bummed out and/or sick two-year-old. Each time my littlest hops over to the bookshelf, I grab another Tag Along or Thin Mint and I’m just ever so thankful I have a Girl Scout in the house. Parting of the Sensory is on loop and I got a message from a reader who said it must be nice to be able to balance it all, and live in such a place where life is perfect. I can read between email’s lines to know even without a sarcasm font they’re sharpening the blade in my inbox, messaging me with a farewell promise to halt site’s traffic.
My plate is full, ten pm comes too soon and arrows of yesterday’s to-do sail onto next week with a finger crossed, a promise to check it all off. I don’t hop around the Internet to read complaints, whines and outrage. I like to settle my eyes into the fuzzy slipper of another’s prose and pictures of a life inspiring and creative, with a dash of humor and a extra helping of honesty. I assume this kinship with my readers.
My camera sits on an antique upholstered chair in a pretty vintage bag while my iPhone never leaves my side. Listening to NPR the other night, I learned about nomophobia, the fear of losing your iPhone. Sadly, I think I have it. I’m an Instagram addict, and I can’t stop looking at my Pinterest app. The girls and I take silly videos all the time, and the notes features has become my composition notebook, my pen with black ink.
And then there’s yesterday. Oh, yesterday. We should all be so lucky as to receive horrible news before volunteering in a preschool. I tucked a bad text into my back pocket of fancy jeans, took a tiny hand that led me to a shared cubby. We sat criss-cross around a hexagonal cushion, read books about cookies and babies and giggled beyond make believe. Reading with three- and four-year-olds calms the heart.
Oh, yesterday. It seems as though each and every person I know has a junkie somewhere in the family. Junkies are good for poetry, that opening chapter of a novel, the middle scene in a ten minute play. Junkies are good for the last mile to race’s end, for Friday night’s plans and Thursday morning’s disposition. Junkies are good for poetry, and for that I am thankful. It’s been a long time since I wrote a long poem that leaves me itching to stand behind a microphone. It’s still a work in progress. I’m heading back to my old writer’s group in a few days, so maybe I’ll post it after that.
Happy March, and thanks for coming here.