Dreaming

It’s been too warm for March this year. Warm and grey and sort of dismal. The warmth is actually nice, except that we won’t be getting much in the way of maple syrup, and in that it feels off to me to have nights above freezing and days of watching the muddy snow melt away. When the sun is hidden too long, I have trouble rising out of my dreams and greeting the day. Today is brighter than yesterday - we can almost see blue in patches of sky and I’m trying to make use of the bright moments to finish my cleaning, beat out the rugs, and write the letters to friends I’ve been allowing to pile up on the desk.

Jenna wrote on Monday about the cost of writing, being in part, a willingness to share the deep parts of yourself, to really bleed out, instead of merely writing the surface. It’s true, and it is an essential, but sometimes I wonder if, in this over-sharing world of ours, the challenge is less to share deeply, and more to know the way to walk between a overload of all the emotional and personal details and an ability to write reflectively - sharing what communicates and what leads to understanding, avoiding what may be deep and personal, but is also too much information - what ends up clouding the point. Maybe it’s about being ‘all in’ to writing, and not all into yourself.

It’s a balance I’m still learning to walk. In my writing I walk on the reserved side - as yet unprepared to reveal my whole self, and the pursuit of openness is a daily one, like the pursuit of holiness, and the attempt to walk through each day full awake and alive to the beauties in each moment.