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I've lost my mojo.

Or something like that. I can't seem to write. Am I broken? I certainly hope not. Maybe just lazy. Or tired. Or thinking about 1,000 other things. And to be honest there are times I feel absolutely embarrassed that I have a blog. That I sit here on my little laptop and click clack the keys until something with paragraphs and too many commas and desires and dreams and haunts and fears and realities comes alive. At least I hope it comes alive. I feel good when I write though. Like it's the one time really am who I am. And maybe to you that doesn't make sense. If so I'll go back to my cave of shame and give myself a good lashing for being this way.

But no. I like to write. I've always written. I communicate with people through the written word because I have a backspace key, or an eraser, or the ability to crumble that piece of paper and make it disappear in a trash can or the orange glow of a flame.

The spoken word is out there. It goes right in. It enters and is processed and my god the ramifications of it all. There's no delete key in our brain. (unless you count gluttonous amounts of vodka or a good amnesia inducing fall). So yeah. I write. Except lately everything I want to write is dumb. It's day to day bullshit. I mean, like my weekend was really good. But I didn't feel like talking about it. I know the cure to writers block is to write. Or at least that's what "they" say. But I don't give a good god damn what "they" say because when I don't feel like writing it's torture to try. It actually makes me feel sick. So I respect that gut instinct and I give "it" the space "it" wants. I wait.

And usually in my waiting I get a logjam in my brain. Thirty three things I want to tell you, but none of them coalesce and then they sit in a pile and get dusty like my shelves and I forget their magic.

Like today, when I took the tiny baby out for a walk and she squealed in her stroller each time we crunched over red Fall leaves. Or how the sun sent shadows slanting wildly down the sidewalk and the cat chased the rabbit. Or how a day spent doing exactly what I want, makes me feel like I can accomplish anything. Did you know that I have absolutely no complaints about my life, except money, I seem to always need more money. But how amazing is that? I am healthy. I love and am loved by a man who would make other women jealous. I have a family that is thoroughly dysfunctional and funny and at the very least consistent in their inconsistency and their love. I have a car, a roof over my head, an education, a cell phone, winter coats, friends who love me and my god the list goes on. And this isn't a post about how we should all be grateful for what we have because there are starving children all over the world.

It's a post about nothing. It's the ramblings of someone who has a carousel of thought in her head. Where the words and the feelings bob up and down, disappearing behind that great mirror in the middle but always come back. And it's a post about love and hope and joy and forgiveness and doing what you love even if it doesn't always makes sense.

So while I wait for cute bf to get home from his successful afternoon of hunting with my Stepdaddy (and how much do I love this man that loves my family?) I will drink my glass of wine and fix dinner and listen to music and just be. Because that is all I have to do.