Since the start of the new year I’ve written a mere ten posts in this space. My father died on December 29th. These two things are related.
I do wish I had more to say, but my writing tends to capture my days, tells stories I want to remember, and marks observations I feel are worth noting. Of these three, stories and observations are my favorite themes, especially given the quiet monotony of my days; not much changes around here but with the seasons, which is a blessing, but not exactly rich with material. Or maybe it is rich and I am not skilled enough to string it into a worthwhile read.
Another quirk about my (crude) process is that I’m not usually able to write about the next thing on my mind until the first thing has been hashed out. I need to write my way through a story, an observation, or the simple retelling of a day, until I reach the other side. Then, for reasons I do not understand, I publish many of those words here, which somehow completes the process for me. Then I’m done and can move on, usually never again reading what I so desperately needed to write.
So here I am, stuck on the telling of a story or two that I’ve been holding onto for almost six months, since dad’s passing, unable to write beyond those front and center thoughts, but hesitant to flesh them out because I'm not sure they are meant for public consumption. Not because I’d reveal details that are too personal, I do try to strike a decent boundary between writing on things that speak to our shared human experience without detailing the intimacy of other peoples’ stories. It’s more about not wanting it to feel awkward for the reader: How much is too much when it comes to the number of times a person can write about loss and grief? I don’t have the answer, so I just stopped writing.
A second element that has contributed to feeling stuck is that I’ve wrapped myself in a bit of a cocoon over the last several months. Not in a reclusive what’s wrong with Heather kind of way, but comfortably so, appropriately introspective and healing. Honestly, it’s been wonderful, but it does find me without much in terms of fodder. I’m not interacting much. Remember, the third thing I like to write about is day-to-day observations, and lately, any observing has felt mostly of the navel gazing variety. Not particularly inspiring.
A couple of weeks ago I ran into three friends in the parking lot of our food co-op (Thursday afternoon is THE time to shop); we stood chatting for close to an hour, frozen goods melting into pavement. It was nice to catch up and share minutia that has largely been reserved for Adam’s ear lately (lucky guy got a break that day). One of the women is a particularly close friend that I normally would have seen at least a handful of times over the last several months, but I just haven’t been up to it. Like writing here, in my day to day life I wonder, how much is too much? I don’t have the answer, so I’ve been connecting less.
Anyway. That’s where I’m at. Kinda stuck, and I’d like to get unstuck. As usual, I have a feeling the only way out is through.