This is part of series of summer letters written to my sisters, my mother and two grandmothers. Writing got tough for me. I was tempted to give up, but these women kept me typing. So I decided to type to them for a time.
Dear Sisters, Mother, and Grands,
It’s Tuesday and every word I throw on the page bounces right off and into the blackhole of “the backspace”— the misspelled word hell.
This week I could tell you of near moments of lucidity, but nothing solid. Like yesterday when I stood on a hill, keeping a three year-old from gravestone hopping, when I caught wind of something beautiful. The blue sky eye held both grandma’s body and desecrating toddler tiptoes. There was something there, but my conscious mind couldn’t pluck it from the clouds. If I tried I’d be forcing it.
Then there was the moment this morning after walking my youngest to school, when I witnessed my twin red and black Razors scooters racing down the busted sidewalk . The miraculously cool June breeze slid my blonde blunt cut off my cheeks and I breathed more consciously in once and out. My sidewalk. My boys. There was something there too— just out of reach.
Summer is not a terribly reflective season when you have children.
It’s busy, constant, fun, and crammed. It’s not the season for alone time, reading and quiet walks— all things that fuel creativity. So there’s some culture shock when I sit down during my one free hour a day and try to reenter that contemplative place. It’s like trying to cram a beach vacation in half an hour. It’s there. It’s nice, but I hardly have time to slip out of my cover-up and apply sunscreen.
It helps to say, “this is a season.”
I could not keep at this pace forever, but I don’t have to. I won’t. School will return. Rhythm and alone time too. My contemplative muscles will have room to stretch and strengthen again soon enough. But for now this is good, this is enough. To sit quietly for an hour and pen you all my scattered, half-formed, heart-felt thoughts on an electronic screen.
Love Always, Laura
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