I'm here tonight as if an obstinate magnet, pulled toward the light of an empty page like a moth that spots a beacon on a dark and stormy night. He flies toward it, hopeful, determined, in need.
I can hardly keep my eyes open and I'm already in bed, but unfortunately, today was another mostly-dreadful one. And so I am here. Flitting over the promising emptiness of a white expanse and an eager cursor.
The page asks nothing, and it is infinitely patient. It is an open embrace that never tires. It doesn't tick or talk or melt down or whine. It doesn't judge or pressure. It accepts truths and lies, ugliness and beauty. It is not defensive or harsh or rude. It never glances subtly toward a clock or a phone. It asks nothing but offers everything. And so I am here.
In front of this empty slate, I am never cold. I am not lonely. Or overwhelmed. Or exhausted. I pour onto the page that my littlest boy called me a jerk, that he kicked me, that I snapped and spent a decent amount of time crying on the kitchen floor because this week has been relentless and "jerk" was the last straw. In doing so, I release these things and can start to let them go. I come to a peace, of sorts, with the underbelly of this life that is mine. The parts that aren't pretty but are real, the parts I don't like but must handle, the parts that others don't often discuss but must surely experience too. And so I am here.
I also record the moments that light my heart on fire: the graceful way Jack received the news that our pug would be staying in Brooklyn; that amidst his tears, he first asked "Is Percy happy?"; and secondly, "How will I tell S? Can you help me, Mom?" (S is a friend who adores Percy and sometimes had him sleep over.) I can hold on to these twinklings with specificity and accuracy, integrating them more fully into memory and heart.
When I write, my cat sits by me. Almost always. He purrs like a gentle motor, bathes himself, falls asleep, snores in a subtle, irresistible way. He lets me reach over and play with his little pink toe pads. They're like warm jelly beans. I think he likes when I write, think he likes the positive zen flow over and around us as a page fills. I do.
The page never suggests that I am too much. It doesn't blink when I rage to it, doesn't mind if I cry. It welcomes jokes and also deeply serious privacies. It is consistent and punctual, generous and reliable, even when little else seems to be. It is enlivening and comforting and the best tool for unearthing self-understanding and acceptance that I've discovered. And so I am here.
This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt "Sometimes, I wonder about my writing. I keep on and on because..." This week's link-up is hosted by Kristi Campbell.