I want to write more. To blog more. There are enough blog posts rolling around in my mind to fill a book, but every time I sit down to spell them out I sit here staring at this blank page, wondering where to start. I want to blog more, but I hate blogging schedules. Why should you write if you have nothing crucial to say? Why speak just because it’s expected? I’d rather be prompted by a stirring in my heart than a scribble on the calendar. Then again, maybe if I had a blog schedule I’d be more apt to get these thoughts written. Or perhaps I’d do well for a week and then fall back into the spontaneous appearances and lengthy hiatuses that have been my blogging as of late. Schedules and chronic illness don’t play well together anyway.
So this is my rambling post. A little snapshot of my swirling thoughts. A writer has to write, after all. I don’t mean we have to write anything good, we just have to write something. Whether you read it or not, we write. It’s how we process life and without it.. well, it tends to feel a little like mental drowning. I guess that’s what makes someone a writer. I mean… there’s the grammar and the vocabulary, too. But I’m hoping those are secondary for now because I can’t promise much. We’ll call this a rough draft, okay?
I entered my 20th year this month and it’s been quite the arrival. I haven’t really had the opportunity to celebrate until this past weekend. On the day of my birthday I was in traffic court for over three hours, contesting my first ticket. The week before my 20th birthday I found out that my dad’s cancer is incurable. I hate cancer. I lost my dog to it nearly two months ago now. But dad’s not done fighting. In fact, he’s doing pretty well this week.
It’s been amazing to me how this influences perspective. In the midst of fear and wondering, I think of families whose loved ones are taken from them suddenly, without warning, and I realize that in some small way there’s a silver lining in the fact that we’ve been warned. You like to think of your parents as immortal and coming face to face with their mortality is difficult, but it also acts as a firm prompt to be grateful for every day you’re given.
It makes you grateful for every birthday you get to spend with them, even if it’s not a great one. And it makes you stop and say “I love you” more than you did before. It hurts and it’s hard. It’s a battle every day to focus on what’s holding you together rather than on what’s tearing you down. But it’s a battle that opens your eyes to blessings you would never see otherwise.