at long last.

Because I can't not write. And because I want to keep doing it forever. Let's try this instead:

https://caffeineandme.wordpress.com/

See you there?

Cheers!

ears wide open.

I think I may be done here. By here, I mean writing into the blogosphere, shielded by anonymity and vagaries. It's been a fun ride, and at the beginning it felt like I was really writing. Back when mySpace was a thing I thought the idea of writing a blog was so...romantic. Then it morphed into some strange place where everyone wrote passive-aggressive monologues at their peers and the world in general. Later, after the feeling we were all invincible wore off, we got down to the business of reporting our progress and just generally performing a verbal lobotomy on ourselves from time to time. Which I guess is pretty good if that's what one needs. But for me, it's been as of late only a place to go when I'm feeling down, or a time-killer when I just don't dare to do more serious work. A hobby. Avoidance. An old brown shoe.

It's been dipping one toe in the water to see if it was as cold as it seemed out there in the internet abyss. It is--even colder, really.  

Maybe that sounds dramatic, but if it's all the same I've discovered something even more inspiring and more frightening. Sharing my life's work, not with the faceless, but with people who are right there--who have names, who have families, who understand (or not), but most of all, people I can see, standing there in front of me, who feel with their guts. People with the guts to understand my message, even if it's not as palatable as another option.

It's a time of change for me. A new chapter in my life, cliche as it is, deserves a fresh start. I'm not talking about a clean slate, because I don't need it. You can't have a new beginning without a history, and I'd like to think I can maintain both. So I need a new place in which to do my best work, and a better way to file away the moments that have built me up or busted me open. But especially, a place where I'm not passively "reaching out" to people that I need and who need me, but rather being wholly present for both of those things to exist. To be real. To be more vulnerable, because that's the hardest thing in the world, at least for me.

Daunting as it seems, I think that ending this chapter also means that I'll gain more freedom. For one, I won't continue to function with the crutch that is feeling invisible. I can write down incomplete thoughts and let them roll around on paper for a while until they form an entire mass. I will allow others to see things, but I'll also be able to see their faces and their feelings, even if they aren't exactly what I'd expected or hoped. I will learn to take criticism, but I will also be guaranteed of the kindness that comes when the cloak of the internet is lifted. We will talk. We will ask questions. I will listen. Perhaps they will read with their eyes open, seeing things as a whole rather than all in pieces. I will hand-pick my readers, with the hope that it will help boost what interest I have in writing as a hobby and something I'm good at to writing because I can't do anything else. And so yeah, I have to leave this behind to get to that.

What I do now is take what are essentially rough drafts of a map of my life and make them complete. Because it's the one thing I was meant to do, even if I never do anything else. Because if I choose writing, then I'm not being lazy by letting it choose me.

I guess what this all means is that I'm ready for something else, even if something else isn't ready for me yet. I'm not even saying I'll never write a blog again. Just not this one.

and no time had passed.

I am sitting in the living room where memories were made. The thing is, nothing has changed. Some important people are now gone, but it feels like they are here. It feels like small me is still here, while a larger, older me looks on. I am loved. 

I know, because as my Memaw counted grandchildren yesterday, she counted me. Because and in spite of being "steps", my sister and I count. As do my sisters step children. I know, because she counted four greats without a second thought. The south is a different place. Time slows down, and sometimes you just sit. The hugs last longer and squeeze tighter. I'm so glad for this place, and so glad I made it back. This time, with no other plans except to completely accept that it is good. Good for me, and the best thing I'll probably ever know.

It doesn't feel like a new year. It feels like all of the old years rolled up into a sameness that is home. Truly, because for the most part everything looks like it did when I was seven years old. The foggy old mirror over the fireplace, the yellow, stained wallpaper in the kitchen, and the nicotine-stained drapes on the windows. At first, I wondered if the smell of years of second-hand smoke would bother me. Would bother J, who doesn't smoke anymore. It doesn't. It can't. Because I am seven years old when I smell it, and it's not yet bad for me, and I don't yet know any different. 

I don't make resolutions anymore. I don't see the need, since waking up every day is a reason to make my life the kind of life I enjoy living. The kind of life that I hope influences the people I love in a way that will make them happier, too. If I could bottle up what I find here, I would take it to them so they, too could feel counted. So they could feel what unconditional really means. It's kind of a big thing, unconditional. I guess that could depend on how often one has been subject to conditions, but for me, it's huge. Larger than me, many times. 

No, I think my every day decisions are based on a basic question. "Is this a good decision, or is this a bad decision?" It's rare that there is no definitive answer. If I am sitting down with my coffee and smoking one more cigarette will make me late for work, the answer is easy. If I think about quitting my job because I am tired of being bumped around and treated like a non-entity, I think about my mortgage. Still easy. There are only a few times lately that it has been too complicated to apply such a simple question. Or that it seems too complicated. Because in the end none of it is very difficult, unless you make it so. Sometimes you just have to say, should I spend this money on some plane tickets and fly thousands of miles to feel seven again? And you just have to answer, shit yes. Yes, financial consequences be damned, yes. 

AmIright?