Still Laughing

Holy shit.

Let's just say a lot can change in four years. That baby from my last post? He looks like this now:

Doing a magic trick at a favorite local toy store.

Oh yeah...and he's a big brother. And his little brother is now nearly the age he was when I last posted.

I didn't even pick a picture where he was making the same face as his brother on purpose; that's how much they look alike.

Snow bunnies.

Time flies?  No, no, no...time is a relentless son of a bitch that keeps marching on while you watch it slip through your fingers like water, leaving you parched and thirsty for more. Saying "time flies" makes it sound cute. Time takes no prisoners.

On that cheery note, I'm here again because of my dear friend Carrye and this blog post. Specifically this part:

"There’s a story I heard once (that I’m probably going to butcher) about a man around 60 who wanted a talented musician to teach him to play an instrument.  The musician said, “Sure, I’ll teach you.  You’ll be able to play well in five years.”  The would-be musician gasped, “Five years!  But that’s far too long to wait!”  And the gifted musician said, “In five years you can play well or in five years you can still not know how to play.  Either way, you’ll be five years older.” 

Perhaps more than ever before, this cut straight to my core. If you can pardon the cliche, becoming a mother not just once, but now twice over has helped me to understand that time waits for no one. You can look at a daunting task ahead of you - whether it's as mundane as the piles of dirty laundry that need to be done or as life-altering as pursuing a new career path - and you can either despair at what needs to be done or start working. The musician in the story above illustrates the obvious, if not illusive, truth: the time will pass anyway.  The only choice you have is how you spend it. The simplest tasks are often the most difficult though, right? Just. Start.

So here I am. Starting. Without even really knowing where I'm going, just that I have to be here.

You can blame Carrye. I do.

Now to go in search of some new direction and purpose. It's almost needless to say, but the person that started this blog more than nine years ago is virtually a stranger to me. Marriage, home-ownership, and, perhaps most of all, being a full-time mom for over four years now has completely torn down the person that I used to be and when I look back at those old entries I almost don't recognize myself. I know I wrote those things...I know the person in the pictures is me...but I feel like I'm reading someone else's story. It's like an out-of-body experience.  But there are a few things that still remain true:

1. I still love lists.
It's a sickness, really. A glorified procrastination technique that makes me feel like I'm being productive. In the case of writing, it's a shortcut. I tend to think faster than I can write, so making a list helps me get all of the thoughts out without having to pause and think about how they're interconnected. That kind of clarity usually comes later. My brain is a crowded place and it's hard to organize the strings of thought that I swear have greater purpose. Even this entry will be written, re-written, and trimmed until it makes sense. But first I have to get all of the thoughts out. Otherwise I wind up sitting at my computer staring at the screen while my mind races, thinking of all the things all at once. My skull is downright cacophonous.

2. I'm still laughing until I cry.
Humor is my most favorite tool as a writer and a person. Even horrible things can be softened and better understood after having a good laugh. It's healing...unifying. If you don't believe me, try to think of the last time you were still mad at someone after they made you laugh. See? I love the power in that kind of joy. I was talking with my husband recently (and I use the word "talking" because it's prettier and more optimistic than "arguing") and attempting to explain why I feel like I need constant reassurance in our relationship (and, perhaps more importantly, why I think he should have no problem providing me with a steady stream of validation). In an attempt to illustrate the kind of verbal affirmation I longed for, I decided I'd tell him what I loved most about him. I was mad, so I was admittedly struggling to come up with a list in the moment. But even as I stared into space grasping at why I was doing life with this man I presently wasn't terribly fond of I was able to blurt out, "You make me laugh." It sounds feeble (because it was), but it hints at how important laughter is to me. In truth, I harbor a lot of darkness. Having levity is crucial or I'll drown in it. As the saying goes, "I laugh because I'll cry if I don't." And sometimes I do both.  Honestly, those times are the best.

3. I still have to write.
I've been compelled to write for as long as I can remember. And before I could write, I would just talk without ceasing. My mom is fond of telling me that when I was little she used to beg me to be quiet for just a little bit and, being a child who was always eager to please, I would respond, "OK, Mommy, I'll stop talking...I'll stop talking now, Mommy...now I'll stop talking, Mommy...OK, NOW I'll stop talking......how long should I stop talking, Mommy?" I'm realizing now that number 1 and 3 in this list are probably related. My constantly buzzing brain needs to spill over or I'll go crazy. I have to process externally or I can't organize the thoughts at all. And though I'm embarrassed to admit it, I have this nagging feeling I have something worthwhile to say. Exactly what that is I have yet to figure out, but I'm getting there. Of course I could shut up for a bit and think about what I'm saying first, but that would be un-American of me. I think first I have to get brave enough to lay my soul bare...or at least finally accept the fact that I am utterly transparent and anything I have to say would not be a surprise to anyone that knows me anyway.  Probably the latter.

But more than all of those, I've resigned myself to writing not because anyone will ever read it, but because I have to write it. And that's OK. Sending my voice out into cyberspace is my message in a bottle...tossed out into the abyss in the hope that someone will read and connect with it, but knowing full well that may never happen. I may not even stick with it, which would be reasonable to assume because I haven't in the past. But I'll resist the temptation to apologize (to no one) and understand that if I don't do it...if I don't just try and start typing and hit "publish" whether I think I've said something worthwhile or not...four years will pass anyway and I will have done nothing to answer this persistent call.

Here goes nothing.