At the lake—all drizzly gray and cold—but chickadees, a bluejay, and a red-winged blackbird are pecking at seeds in the feeders—making it bright and warm.
The dogs, they sleep. One likes coming here for that very reason—uninterrupted rest. The other tries to sleep away his anxiety but only naps in fits. Paws twitching, eyes opening, grumpy faced.
I came here to do little things—tune up the garden tractor, get out summer toys, wire an electrical outlet in the garage. I did all that. Drank two cups of coffee. Now I’m at the yellow-top Formica table, done with chores, writing my way into the night.
Been doing this a long time. Don’t see a stop anytime soon. This used to be for survival. Getting through. Making sense. Now, it’s like breathing. I just do it. As long as all the parts keep working—air in and out—I’ll keep my fingers to the keys.
People mistakenly believe that this is good for the ego, the pocketbook, or that I’m writing to leave something behind. But all I want to do is make this big picture into a series of small, simple ones so that you can see.
This isn’t easy—what we’ve come from, what we’ve seen—keeping our heads above water on our own when it would be easier to latch onto others and float. Or take the big gulp and sink.
But we’re good at this. The keeping on. Despite the mess.
The silent ache of pulling dead kittens from the woodpile.
The screaming girl at the bottom of a hole in the garbage dump.
The heaviness of sobriety after decades of drinking with strangers so you don’t have to feel, hear, or see. When you’re sound enough to recognize the healing that comes when you’re alone. At the lake. Even when it’s all drizzle and gray.
~ KJ
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