So. Somehow I went nine and a half months without writing. There are many reasons for this, but since I have no one to be accountable to, I won’t delve into them. Mostly, we were travelling. Actually, that seems like a reason to write more, but we used our other blog for recounting travel details, and then every time I thought about writing here, I felt overwhelmed and empty-handed. I kept holding off, waiting until I had something important and hopefully insightful to say, letting days and months go by, almost (but not quite) forgetting about this space. The truth is that I still don’t know what to say or where to begin, but the other truth is that no one is really looking at this but me, so I have nothing to lose by writing whatever I’m currently interested in or thinking about.
The last week has been especially rough for both Mark and me. Homesickness combined with the flu combined with just a general sense of ambivalence about travelling versus settling again has made it a long, weary few days, and to be honest, I’ve been throwing a pretty impressive pity party for myself. We spent a week in Paris, and despite the fact that the weather was stunning, and the cheese plentiful and cheap, and we had the perfect (tiny) apartment in Montmartre, I spent a lot of time brooding over what I wanted to be different. I know that it’s not possible to love something all the time, even if that thing is travelling and it’s what we’ve wanted to do for years. At the same time, this is the one chance we get at this life. I’ve been thinking about this continuously for the last 48 hours, since I found out that my 19-year-old cousin in Wales died suddenly from an inflammation of a previously-unknown cyst in his brain. I didn’t know him well, though I’ve met him a few times, but from all accounts, he was funny, sweet, loved Tupac and soccer, and was happy. I wish I had gotten to know him as an adult. His mother is one of my favourite relatives, someone who has welcomed me into her home many times and still one of my main sources for book recommendations. She and my uncle have a relationship that I’ve observed and tried to emulate (though perhaps this week I haven’t been so successful). In fact, she was one of the only relatives who contacted me after my dad died. I expected emails from so many other, seemingly “closer” relatives, but never heard from many of them. She remembered me, and I’ve always remembered that.
Wait, there’s that pity party again. What I want to say, what I’m trying to say in a really roundabout way, is that this is it. This is my life. I want to remember it and appreciate it and even on the really crappy, rough days, experience it. I guess I want this space to be something of a digital notebook (ugh, what a terribly obnoxious phrase). I need to stop overanalyzing and just start writing. Here we go.
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