Tonight I talked to my therapist about blogging, the kind I did twenty years ago. About how much fun I used to have. About how satisfying it was. About how I’d jump out of bed in the morning, or rather roll out of my mattress on the ground, and run to my computer and type the day away. About how I miss it.
The stakes were low then. I was young. I was waiting tables. For the first time in my life I’d really found my voice. If I could look back at it now — which I can’t, because I torched it all one night out of fear when looking for a new job — I’m sure I’d be mortified. I never proofread my posts until they were published. Everything I posted was a first draft. From my brain to my fingertips to the world wide web without a second thought. I was cringe, but I was free.
Two days before this shocking news I set up this blog. Pure coincidence, and honestly, had Heather not died I might not have ever written the first post, another hare-brained idea left unacted upon. But as I sat in my sadness about what happened, I realized much of my grief was about how that formative chapter of my life had long ago closed. And how as long as I draw a breath, a new page can be turned.
And so here I am. Here we are.
Sparkwood & 45.