No Misgivings

Every day includes much more non-being than being. This is always so. One walks, eats, sees things, deals with what has to be done; the broken vacuum cleaner; ordering dinner; washing; cooking dinner. When it is a bad day the proportion of non-being is much larger."

- Virginia Woolf

I posses the Woolf dilemma: An incessant fear of bleeding on the page. Part reason why I've much refrained from pouring and writing my heart out last year. Realizing how bereft my space had become, an acrid twinge of hurt pinged from my insides. Not writing is akin to dishonesty - close to disowning that soft part of myself that has always been.

However, discomfort reigned. This I admit. What would those who know me say of the me that trifles with semantics? A disconcerting thought until I read what Dani Shapiro had to reveal: 

It is only in the silence that our voice emerges. It is only in movement of the hand across the page, one word following the next, in the crafting of sentence that we know ourselves. We can talk ourselves blue in the face, and we may be telling a certain kind of truth, but it is not the deepest truth, not the truth of our private heart. 

This afternoon, late in the day there is that silence. So what can I say? That my under eyes have soft worry lines, that my chest still hurts from a prolonged seasonal bout with sinus, that my spirit still feels heavy from the shock of having my eldest son figure in an accident, that I think of myself wishing I could get an upgrade chip version of me.There.


Maybe a little rant can do good for the soul. Good times have rolled. No remiss in acknowledging that. My thoughts have always gone the course of the positive.But just this once, perhaps, there can be no misgiving in penning the bog that weighs me in.