At a certain point, you wonder why you are doing this. Trawling through the internet. Taking pictures of your food. Creating experiences just to write about them. Living from comment to comment. Violating ambiguous boundaries. Envying the relentless perfection of others. Hating the all the vapid, twee content, and the thinly disguised self-promotion. Devouring your own sour grapes.
It starts to feel like bullshit. It starts to feel like an impediment to real life.
Here's what is real to you:
Letting go of something cherished that makes you miserable, even though it makes you miserable to let go.
Discovering the therapeutic nature of make-up tutorials, which, for a blessed moment or two bring order to chaos, and embrace the healing properties of beauty.
Making a fire for your dad to keep him warm.
Planting his garden, painting his trim, watering his grass.
Feeling the profound satisfaction and pride that comes with making him comfortable and happy when he is feeling rotten.
Pouring everything that's left into your own garden, your heart bursting with every bloom.
Putting adventure on hold for a while, and reconciling yourself with that disappointment.
Taking a nap in front of the Christmas tree with your husband, Day 2 in your pajamas. Realizing that this may be better than adventure.
Sitting in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum of Art talking about funeral arrangements with your mom, because it's closer to reality than it's ever been.
Gathering with your family to celebrate whatever you can. (Good excuses to drink champagne: Pre-Epiphany, the Day Before Downton Abbey Airs in U.S., and Fauxhawk's breathtaking lasagna)
I'm not a good enough photographer, nor a good enough writer to capture any of that in blog post. It just had to be lived without commentary.
Maybe that means I'm not a real blogger – some things still seem too big or too small for this space. But I missed you and this rickity, unsexy little blog. And it's not false modesty to say that it surprised me to learn that some of you sweet readers missed me too. What happened, you wrote. Should I give up on you?
I didn't know what to say. Your kindness and soft reproaches made me cry - and feel a little bit proud that something I'd given you was of worth.
Maybe I'm ready to come back. I'm rusty as hell - out of touch, wobbly, sentimental, confused, inconsistent. But if you'll have me as I am, I'll be here.