In looking at the blog I've noticed I've not been posting much, and over on viddler I've not been videoing much. Now one theory might be that I'm not spending as much time on line lately, but really that's not the excuse. I think the problem is best described as analysis paralysis. I tend to have lots of ideas of things to write about. I've probably written about 10 posts in my mind - but getting them to the blog - now that's the challenge. I guess part of it is my public and private tendencies battling it out.
Some people are good at writing no matter their mood - in truth we all are human and have ranges of emotions. I often want to share thoughts when I'm in my darker moodier moods, but then I stop. I wonder - how will this inspire someone. How will this make their life better. It's my mood - why should I bother others with it. But in a sense, I'm doing the same thing that I HATE about some writing. "Oh yes, everything was tumbling down and I was violently ill but I had faith and it all came out wonderful because of my great faith." "Wonderful", I say to the author "and how exactly am I supposed to relate to you and learn from your story?" So perhaps those down days aren't so bad for writing after all.
A week ago I was busy packing for a trip to Nevada City to go to my Grandfather's 90th birthday party. It was wonderful to go and sad to go. In some ways Nevada City is the place that is most like "home" even though I've never really lived there. I have been going there during the summers for longer than I've lived any one place. My grandparents were always there along with my aunt and uncle and usually some more of my mother's side of the family.
It was in the summer that I would read what I wanted and contemplate the universe. It was a consistent "home base" more so than that which would be called "home" at any time in my life.
That said I have not been back to Nevada City in years for various reasons. And this past March my grandmother died. I couldn't make the funeral because my mother-in-law had died just 6 days earlier and I was physically unable to make the trip on top of that. So this trip "home" was the first time I had been back since my grandmother had died. As I stepped through the gate that led to the house I looked and saw my grandmother's touches on the house and cried.
There was the swan on the railing:
Which reminded me of the stories she'd tell me of Half-chick and Dapple Gray and other stories.
And then there were the details along the roof-line.
And the little planter stand she and grandpa would make together.
After a few seconds I composed myself and headed across the little bridge to the house and called out the family "yoo hooo" as I opened the door to announce my arrival.