I am having some blogging blockage. I seem to only feel inspired when something goes comically wrong, or is light heartedly moving. Why can’t I write about pain and loss? Do I have an aversion to putting tragedy in writing? Maybe I am afraid of making it official.
It seems as of late that every time I take my place in front of the PC to share an anecdote or a warm memory, my hands go limp. I am not short on joyous and humorous reflections or stories. In fact, my Dad and Lucy’s trip to the Taronga Zoo on the hottest day of the year was tempting to write about. I had them sit in the baking sun for a half an hour so they could see a bird show, which was cut short due to animal heat exhaustion. Or perhaps I could have chronicled our spontaneous journey to the Hunter Valley where the sun ebbed and the wine flowed. It was delicious fun.
I could write for pages on Kenna’s kindergarten adventure thus far, or about how proud I felt today when she was able to read the note I put in her lunch box this morning.
I could write about the Jones’ journey down under. I could tell the world about how great it felt to hug one of my oldest friends. How comforting it was to have home come to me.
But, I need to, for once, write down a feeling that is not light. It isn’t funny. It is almost as if I can’t bring myself to blog again until I face the wave that is coming for me. I don’t want to fight the rip,
My family has been eternally altered. With the passing of my cousin Kyle, the shape of us has changed. Learning of his death brought a sharp pain. It was an accident, a surprise. A survivor and casualty of war. We don’t realize what balance a family has until a weight is lifted from one side of the scale. How important and valuable we each are…
My Uncle Gordy left the earth shortly after Kyle’s departure. The man who taught me the importance of using a wooden spoon when making a sauce, the one who lectured me endlessly about the power of poetry and exercising the mind. Then man who loved family with an unsurpassed passion. With his passing, he passed a torch to a new generation of matriarchs and patriarchs. Leslie, Kenny, Nancy, and my Momma, Carolee.
I feel a strange guilt not throwing in a story about me humiliating myself publicly, but I just knew I couldn’t continue this blogging nonsense until I had said their names.
I love you Kyle Marshall Farr.
I love you Gordon Lee Creighton.