28 July 2022

as it turns out

I significantly underestimated the sacredness of this space. though quite frankly, my underestimation looks more like forgetting and then remembering, forgetting and then remembering. back in may, the night before ezra graduated from high school, the subject of the butter came up. that is, the infamous tub of butter that went missing when ezra was just three years-old and mysteriously showed up a few days later inside a lidded pot (which was nestled behind a mess of many lidded pots in the very back of a kitchen cabinet so high up I needed a small step stool myself to reach it). surely ezra was the culprit, though it still seems impossible. we were never able to prove it or explain it and he doesn't remember (or, says he doesn't) and anyway, now it's as embedded in the family folklore as both birth stories, the time I put fake toilet paper in the bathroom and the crazy magic christmas of 2010. 

I remembered writing about the butter here and went looking for it in my archives that night. something else I underestimated: the unmitigated joy of reading old posts out loud to the humans you wrote about. one post led to another and before long, we were swimming in stories and details I had long since forgotten. I cannot explain what it felt like to read these pieces out loud to the kids for the first time. the kids, who are now 18 and 22. I cannot explain what it felt like in the room that night-- story after story, their joy, my joy. I cannot overstate this. and in writing this right now, I can feel how much I want to get it right, how tempted I am to overthink it, to leave this draft open and unpublished, to get up and do something else-- to check stupid dumb instagram, to reorganize the book shelves, to wash the three dishes in the sink-- something/anything to keep from thinking through/writing through this thing that happened that was so wonderfully deep and joyful though also strangely (inexplicably, ever so slightly) painful. I want to get it right and I don't think I can.

in a year, five years, maybe ten, I'll read this and remember. what I know now, after nearly eighteen years of blogging, is that this is all that really matters.

5 comments:

  1. Hi old friend! I was reading my favorite blogs tonight (a now rare occurrence) and, since Kottke is still on sabbatical, I thought... who else do I love that I haven't visited in a while? ...hulaseventy was my first thought. So I came here and was so delightedly surprised to find this two-day-old post! Your posts are always a treat to read, kinda like a delicious meal. Something about the way you write feels emotionally tangible. And your mention of memory lane and how valuable these records of it are... that's so true. This is a powerful practice—this type of memory keeping—and so uniquely human. I hope you never stop. You inspire me... always. Love you! :)

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    1. vanessa! HI! and thank you-- for still reading this elderly blog of mine (blogspot! lolz) and for your kind words and for taking the time to comment-- still, after all these years, it means so much. love you, friend! xo

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  2. I also have not visited here in a long, long time... but am delighted to see a fresh post... and concur that our blogs of our lives are unique and special treasures that bring joy when we revisit them years and years later. I hope never to stop adding to my own blog.

    Your blog, as always, is filled with wonderful images and keen descriptions of events. I wish more of the internet were like this.

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    1. thank you, amy! thank you so much! (and re: blogs-- truth! with social media the mess that it is, I think these spaces are more important than ever) xo

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