My Last Blog

I used to blog about my life here.  Thought and action. Events and feelings all consuming and the fleeting.  But I feel these days I have lost my life. At least my ability to catch it in glimpses and waves. I have this desire to continue. If not here, in public, in some sort of journal.  A recollection of all that happens in a day.  This vapor life. 

One friend writes only a sentence as he shuts out his bedside light. I like that idea, too. Not for the whole world to see, but for me. Nothing long or profound but a chronicle just the same. A chronicle of MY life.  

But the problem now is that my life is seemingly no more than a melting pot of other's lives. My worries, fears, struggles, exhaustion, joys and laughter are none my own, but the carrying of relationships.  My chronicling these days would simply be a chronicling of the stories of others as they intertwine with me. Weigh on me and delight me. This fading of self is ok. This sense of privacy I feel toward the lives that intersect mine is healthy I think. Lonely but good.  These stories are beautiful and they will be told in their own beautiful time. I could ask permission I suppose, but I feel no need. 

Of my children now.  I began this blog when they had not their own words. Now they are their own beings - no more do I feel a freedom to tell of their woes and victories. These are their own. I do not know when it became such, but I know now very truly that I have no place to share my struggles concerning them, for they own the struggles as well.  

Of the men at the farm.  Abiding the law I cannot tell their stories, but as family I have felt I could.  Of late I feel they tell their own tale, and superior than I.  They will often ask for a particular photo to be posted to their Facebook or ask if we can text it to a specific friend. They own their digital world well for now. I need not manage it.  

Of the students. They flood in and out of “my life” - but to tell their story here is such a small and disjointed piece of their own woven tapestry - it feels unfair. Distorted. And the days jam pack full, too full, to pull out instances and scenarios. I am not skilled enough to give a clear picture of the deep complication and beauty of living in such a delicate home.  I wish I were. I wish I could give these clear pictures of each of the lives that so beautifully color mine. They color mine to the point now that without them, without their private stories, mine stands naked. 

And my husband. Perhaps I learned this quiet from him.  This “I have nothing that needs to be said,” feeling that runs deeper than any words.  

So, what I guess I am saying is, for now, this blog has run its course. I read a bit the other day about our growing narcism. How the internet feeds it. Perhaps it does. But perhaps when we take the internet along just far enough that we fall into the actual midst of a sea of lives - instead of just staring at the possiblity within ourselves  - and we let go - we find we can swim. 

Thanks for reading.