I’ve been thinking about writing a lot lately. It means so much to me to be able to put my thoughts and feelings down and processed. It’s a great outlet for a lonely person who has lots to say. It’s crazy great to be able to read it back and realize that I have a gift that I’ve given to myself. The ability to go back and read what I thought and felt, and remember with better accuracy what happened is pretty great. Yes, it is also painful. But it has also helped me so much through the years.
When I’m alone with nothing to do I start typing and am often surprised at what comes out. But ultimately it is very simply my story. Not a historical account, not a fictional novel, and not really written for or to anyone but me.
I have had a great week. My life has been full. Right now my house is full with visitors from out-of-town hitting Disneyland all week while their kids are off school. Three kids and two adults and sleeping bags all over the place. They thanked me for allowing them to invade my home and I told them the entire evening I would have spent alone on the couch if it weren’t for them so I appreciated it as much as they did. And that is the truth.
I managed to squeeze in a run last night while I waited for their arrival. My son was at a senior citizen prom literally dancing with old ladies. My daughter was playing for the pep band at a basketball game. And I was making plans for a date tonight. A real one. And I’m excited.
Mercenary guy is headed out on another mission soon and will be gone for months. I’ve gotten to know him through lots of talking and he’s funny and sweet and not as scary as you might think although what he does is very scary. It’s only a date and it will be a nice change and it’s making me smile and it’s part of my story, so I’m telling it.
It’s my improvised life. The ups, the downs and all the in betweens taking me places, giving me joys and heartache both. What I do know, is I’m better for all of it.