Monday, September 5, 2011
:: Words are absent lately, mostly this past week. Partly because every time I sit to write, I'm thinking about this. And how I want to be there. How many memories are washed away, gutted, destroyed, and just gone. A few years ago, I wrote a song about the road I grew up on and a lyric in it said, "Murphy's river winding through the valley... Don't change every thing 'til I can come home again."
After the flooding, I texted a good friend back in Dallas and told him that apparently Murphy's river (Schoharie and Fox Creek) didn't care for my song very much, seeing as how she devastated most of the community.
He replied, "Or maybe she did...and she waited until you could go home again."
And I cried.
Because what we all knew as home: the places we gathered to eat, where friends met up, where my friends grew up, where we went swimming in the hot, humid summers, got ice cream and shakes, tomato and mayo sandwiches on wheat; all of it, if it's not destroyed completely, will never be the same.
:: Words are also scattered because now that all the transition and moving, packing and sorting, lifting and driving is over — I can't help but feel that familiar sense of "now we need to make this home." I have about three different blogs written up about wanderlust, moving, responsibility, making a home and the like. But in some ways, I think it's all empty and, perhaps, untested. I need to live and walk some things out before I go spouting off about them in my blog. It's so easy to write about things. So easy to analyze and come up with my position on things — theologically, culturally, relationally. But I don't want to just be a blogger who waxes poetic on life. I'd rather work things out in my story over some time before telling you how I see it. I think that's fair, don't you?
:: Words might also be elusive because I am parenting a toddler. Who talks a lot. And asks a lot of questions. Parenting is, hands down, the hardest thing I've ever done. It's also the most incredible adventure I've ever been on. Yet, when I go days without seeing another person over the age of three, all of my words and thoughts go inward. Silence feels more comfortable than cracking open my heart.
So that being said, it's September and I am ready for autumn. I haven't experienced a New York fall in seven years.
That's too long, people. Too long.
// linking up today with the Soli Deo Gloria Sisterhood
at 7:07 PM