new at this

I have never fancied myself a writer. I leave that to my fireman who has a rare and beautiful way of composing sentences. For example, I always defer the Christmas letter to him, the master of words. He actually enjoys reading books about the origin of the English language which I find totally weird. I wish he would write a book and make us rich.

Writing is empowering. I realize how much time I waste rolling around thoughts and ideas and conversations, never drawing conclusions. Stewing, unproductively, is sucking the life out of me. But writing forces me to figure out what I really think about things. Am I mad about this? Am I ready to move on? What grief stage am I in? In a way it is very freeing.

Some people keep a prayer journal. It would be nice to peruse a prayer journal over the years and take note of what prayers have been answered and how. Life would unfold from a totally different perspective if looked at through prayers. I'm just not that disciplined with journals or with prayers.

I can't say that I love to write, but it feels good- like a hot shower after I've worn tight pantyhose and high heel shoes for too long. It feels good to spit it out. Get it out. Finally. I think I feel an accountability when I blog to be honest and timely. I feel an urgency to deal with my "stuff" and move on. It's a pressure that I need. It forces me in to spill my guts out and see what the emptiness brings. Sometimes it brings nothing and for me, that's good too. I feel sorted out. I have organized my thoughts and feelings and put away the ones that do nothing for me or aren't mine to own anymore.

I feel numb now. I haven't cried in days. I don't feel sad, but not necessarily happy either. Maybe it's survival mode. I wish we had a plan. I wish I could rub the magic ball and see my future. I want to know where we will be in 2 months, 2 years.

I need some yummy food and laughter- the kinds that is so out of control it's crying and laughing at the same time. Where your head feels like it might burst from your body and your sides hurt- when even your good friends are surprised and little scared of you.

I painted today. The entry hall is now a nice model home khaki color instead of my bright green apple. The fireman hated that green from the moment the first stroke hit the wall. I loved it. I guess he thinks the house will be more appealing with subtle and normal colors through out. Maybe it will balance out the crazy kitchen. I love to paint. I love to see the colors change so dramatically and suddenly. I wish I could paint my insides and redecorate them. If it could only be that simple.

I held a newborn last night. I was reminded of the fragility of life and the lightening speed of time. Tomorrow she will look different and in a few hours, weigh several more ounces. Her eyes will open for more than 4.57 minutes a day and her world will bloom and become fragrant and colorful. Her tiny hands will reach and grasp and, with wonder, her parents will delight in each moment and milestone. It's the newness and freshness of life, unsullied and unaffected. It's the irony of life- she is totally free in spirit and mind yet, physically, completely attached and dependent.

I am tired. My brain is grinding to a halt. I am high on paint fumes.
I hope to slip into dreamless sleep and wake refreshed.