I feel slightly pensive this morning.
Sometimes writing to myself helps, though, in many cases what I've written rarely goes as far as the deeply rooted pages of unpublished work.Today however I have little care of my privacy and what may come to light in my writing should I become unguarded.With that being said,little traffic comes my way and I should bother none to this point but to write to myself, as many do in their blogs.
This morning I craved for tea for reasons of my brain and its thinking of it as an elixir for calm. Course we had none and I opted for the sounds of perking coffee than the whistle of the old kettle, which I wouldn't have minded.
It is a quiet morning here and the sky is a true blue.On any given day such a sight from a sky would have one fanciful, though for reasons clustered in my head and heart my cup seems half full.
I think of Bobby at this moment.
Bobby was a long time writing friend whom like many of us found ourselves here, trying to make a new home for our writing, and, well,in the end before his writing disappeared all together-he wrote in what I call tongues, or for a better meaning,wrote between the lines, something I often did myself over the many years of writing online when I felt the need to exit the very emotions that bottled me up- that were ever so close and personal.
In the last days of Bobby's writing I read between the lines.I used to prize myself secretly for having that ability to read people,however, sometimes it was met with sad findings.In this particular instance I believe Bobby's last posts were of that, sadness and the inability to scream and cry from the highest mountain of that he suppressed in his writing.Of that a marriage broken and no words to say in fear of it being true.
Oh,how I wish Bobby were here so I could tell him how I can relate.I wish I could have told him by a woman's perspective and a friend that the travels through life brings about changes.That the one and only constant in your life has all but grown and changed course-needing you less and less in ways she couldn't tell you, in ways she knew it would take that dagger and split your heart in half.
I wonder if she told him or he simply just figured it out.
Its been a long road.
I wonder just of late in all the trials and tributes of life,and the terrible traumas experienced in families such as mine over the last few years, that,I have come to a place of familiar fading feelings that were shadowed through the many-unexpected family traumas.And that of excruciating trauma's which threatened both my daughter and granddaughter and,recently my husband with melanoma,where, I have come to a place of me.Somewhere in all the lengthy hospital visits I lost me.
Should I be so vain to think of myself? (hm)... guilty I feel.
Yesterday was a civil day between my husband and I.I think he senses all this time we've grown together has a fading feeling.I can't say those words out loud from the fear he might suspect his love stronger than mine.Or should it be the love in question? certainly the endearments live strong.
I wrote this candid post originally for myself, though underlying it was a new book I began to read last night that made me think of the many woven connections of two in a marriage and how dearly I related in small and loud ways.
The book is a collaboration of Luanne Rice and Joseph Monninger, called, The Letters.
The two main characters in the book are of a husband and wife who, unlike myself, lost a child, though, if not fighting for my daughter the loss might have been closer to relating.
The book.(I haven't read tremendously far into it yet,though...I could have easily if I hadn't wanted to save my reading for nights to come). The two characters of the book Sam and Hadley,have all but separated their ways after the loss of their son in a northern plane crash.Both Sam and Hadley have not recovered emotionally and have set out on their own. Sam is in the north searching with a guide his son's crash site so he can make closure, and Hadley is in a cottage off the Maine coast,painting with a ghost she feels comfort with in her time of bereavement.In this time of separation they write letters by pen and paper back and forth to one another.(So far some of the letters make me feel that either one of them are ready for a divorce,though both seem to speak of it as a preparation that a day will come of reality.Personally I'm rooting for a reconciliation,but any reader would naturally wish for happy endings.)That said,the letters back and forth dabble with the happy past,letting the reader in on a past full of heart and simple adventures,though later marred with alcoholism.(Sometimes we see whats happening and how it affects others yet, hm,we wish it away and not speak of it until its too late).
I have yet gotten to the middle of the book and,well,quick frankly feel deeply invested to be there and to its end before I rather wish it to be-its (that) passionate for me.I rather savor the story and wished in some cases the book was much longer,however,one need not write more than the point taken from finish to end-I've learned this in my own travels publishing, meager as its been.Or not.
From this book I feel lessons to be learned.Not of how one or the other has written the book but,in the ways of two souls apart dealing with the same anguish in two separate ways.A marriage that has broken, though, for all purposes through letters has or seems,brought the two together, or seemingly is bringing them to a better understanding of one another.
Throughout my short read thus far I cannot stop thinking of course of my own marriage and husband.
Perhaps instead of a few harsh words or statements and suppressed anger and frustration one could simply write (letters)The thought tumbles about in my mind like a life line.
And so in ending this post (as the hours have passed) I should tell of how I came upon such thought and book, well, outside of what has been written above.
The book arrived in a form of a gift,one out of a few birthday gifts from my parents, celebrating my birthday early as I'm away for my birthday.Mom knows I like to read Luanne Rice's books and knows I will on occasion twitter back and forth to Luanne, though mom has no idea what a twitter is.
What mom doesn't know is I also am aware of Joseph Monninger on Twitter.What mom also doesn't know is that (and knows now by the utter shock on my face when opening the book of Letters)that I had wished to read this book-had not mentioned the book to her at any given time with no real reason-and was not in the means of gifting myself such the pleasure or had.
Its all quite ironic to me.Not only because of my life's position and relation to the book but its cover-the image of wooden lawn chairs which I'm all so familiar with as in comfort imaging I tend to barrow.
For me? its like reading old friends.Most likely because I know who the writers are and consider them as such.
Its different reading a book from which you may know a person-your inside their head,and slipping through the threads of their heart.
In all of this I believe with age things happen for a reason.And
sometimes I believe in six degrees of separation, which might matter none to this situation other than a connection.
It is like this....I was meant to have
this book, simply-
in this moment-
at this time~
Saying it out loud
not under cover