musings upon musings

my personality is as evident in the way i write as in anything else: i am rash, impatient, eager to put down and release what i can hear in my head.

planning? structuring? looking ahead? formulating a big picture to fit the pieces within?
pshaw!

but really, it does leave me at an impasse. i have all these ideas, all this beautiful language, and it sits in pieces here and there, not a part of anything larger or more purposeful.
i have been working for a few months now on a collection of memories and musings on growing up in a large Christian family. but even it is in broken pieces down the page, disconnected. how does one learn how to do what it is not in their nature to do?

until i can figure that out, i am simply adding to the mass. that's what im doing this morning! mikey has been encouraging me to get away for a few hours on a saturday morning to write--something that i cant seem to do at home when surrounded by a host of other distractions. i havent had a free saturday in a while, but today here i sit, "alone" (that guy over the intercom, announcing that people's food is ready, is really starting to get to me), writing.

originally, i thought that i wouldnt be able to remember enough about my childhood to put down on paper, but as i write about one thing, another comes back to mind, then another and another until i find myself not nestled in front of the fire place at panera, but back in Pittsburgh, PA climbing trees and making mud pies and having a funeral procession for a tiny mole that we accidentally killed in the yard. I see myself on a hillside, surrounded by family and singing "Shine on, Harvest Moon" while its light is eclipsed slowly before our eyes. i feel myself warm and close in a tunnel we fashioned out of tightly packed snow, or riding our bikes in a circle in the driveway until nightfall.

and tears are coming to my eyes. childhood is a fabulous thing. perhaps that is why we resort back to its innocent state when we enter our gray years. perhaps we are so astounded by it as adults because it holds a magic that we long to have again--a magic that will be ours once more in the after-life.

i know i had conflict with my siblings when i was young, but i do not remember a single one of those fights clearly. at least up until about age 10 or 11, i just remember blissful days of creative play, romping around rural Western PA.

these days, when working through relationships with even siblings is difficult and full of complexity, those memories are so sweet. they are a gift, actually. something that brings me back to a place of love and comradeship even in the midst of learning how to be friends with family members who you may not have much in common with but DNA. i am truly thankful today that i have those fond, fond, remembrances.

fragmented thoughts about history and about loss

a new self-discovery: history is important to me.
personal history. relational history.

it is the one thing that i am running short on these days, and i think i might be starting to panic.

it seems that all the history ive spent years of my life cultivating has gone through a season of pruning. for years, i spent time, love, and energy, and risked vulnerability in organizations and relationships that i viewed as long-term investments. for years, they thrived and helped me grow--fed me and made me feel secure. now when i look at my immediate surroundings, i feel that i am facing new fields to be sown and watered and weeded and tended. new relationships. new endeavors.

i am not the kind of person who faces change and breathes it in like a fresh breeze, inviting it in, excited about its possibilities.

rather, i bury my head in a pillow and scream, hoping it will pass quickly and painlessly.
(it never does).

i am tired. i am tired of investing so much just to watch it slip away from me. and tired of starting over again and again and again. i want history. a solid foundation, a basis for understanding and empathy. but im tired of putting in the work to build it. and im afraid (have i mentioned that yet?). afraid of investing and then saying goodbye...again.

i am reading lewis' "a grief observed" and while i have not experienced a loss like lewis, i am finding his thoughts insightful and helpful. this advent, my season of longing has been accented by grief for some things lost this past year.