Monday, April 15, 2013


I hide behind the rain
A transparent wall of wet noise
The grey darkness cloaks
my apathy
my inactivity
my desire to do nothing
but stay inside
for cerebral pursuits

Just read a book
Stare at the wall
Write poetry
Or think
Or remember
Or not

I need the rain for this
A claustrophobic's solution
to solitude without walls

What makes it okay
to stay inside
to wear comfortable clothes
all day long
just because there is water falling from the sky?

The true comfort of my space
my shelter
shines in the rain

Even  my car
becomes an appealing space
to take refuge
behind a windshield
that melts
with each raindrop

Random found journal entry, written in 1999 B.C. (before children)

Monday, April 08, 2013

Tonight, I am a voyeur

It's late.

I've been reading, like a voyeur, the blog of a total stranger, connected to me only through six, or maybe seven, degrees of separation. I found her blog through Facebook. The blogger, a woman far younger than I am, yet filled with words, thoughts, desires, emotions,  imagery and experiences that resonate right through my addled mom brain, is a mom like me. A mom like so many women, yet unlike so many women.

I like her writing style.

I like her written voice.

I was compelled, for the first time in a very long time, to keep reading, and reading, back, back, and further back into the annals of her blog. I was intrigued to see how the chapters of her young life unfolded. I felt compelled to track her progress-- from end to beginning-- from girl with a head full of dreams and passions to mother with a head full of the same things, which all of a sudden weigh  heavier, become fraught with choice and conflict, and I hoped maybe I'd see some things I recognized from my own experiences.

I did and I didn't.

But it is always interesting to see how other people do life, love, and motherhood. How they do the wacky 180 degree turnaround from all me all the time, to "holy shit there is a baby in my body, then in my house, then in my life in the most permanent of ways and I'm not sure how she got here."

But what really drew me was the tragically beautiful way she wrote about a childhood friend who died a freakish and unfair death recently. I was blown away by her words, her patterns of thought weaving in and out of memory and present time. A lovely web of the most intricate and random threads pulled together in a time of sorrow.

Again I don't know the writer and I don't know the man or family she is grieving for.  I know of them, live near them, but don't "know" them. I only know her writing moved me. I only know her love of words, her faith in words, her need to write it all down, make sense of it, own it, then let it go, expressing the un-expressable, felt familiar to me.

Familiar. Like family.