unwrapped

Many unwrapped gifts are still under the tree, waiting their turns for attention. We sit close on the couch, in the first morning light and eat my sister’s banana bread while making yum sounds. We sit together and even if we don’t talk for a long time, we’re here.

With the kiddos on break, we are lazing around, finally, after all the holiday running. Piles of Legos are like minefields across two rooms. I look around at the Christmas decorations and consider putting them away, but then I don’t. We like having strings of lights inside the house.

We have had all the winter germs inside our bodies. Strep and Influenza, infections, and plain old nasty colds. Please let us be done. That’s a lofty goal, to be done, but please. We are coughing and coughing, sometimes in unison, shaking up the quiet house.

In the mornings, I look at Facebook for a bit, and hardly look again all day. The Internet is kind of a floppy and slippery thing in my life. It is that fish that won’t sit still, one I cannot hold and need to set free. My part in the worldwide web’s collective voice, although it was always a bit squeaky in my opinion, is now almost completely quiet. I try to clear my throat and start again, but nothing happens when I breathe deep and try to speak, or yell. I just cough. This tells me it is just fine to be quiet.

There are things that I write now, and have been writing all along, offline. Some of them will be shared someday, maybe? Some of them most certainly will not.

I used to care too much about this voice of mine. But like letting go of any habit, the trigger finger stills, and the need goes dormant.

It’s been a long time since I stepped back from the Internet, but I thought you should know that it felt more like a peaceful sigh than a worn out white flag surrender.

Truth be told, I’m a writer, so I still want to write every moment, tell every story, speak every thought and feeling into black and white on paper or screen. But this goal is too lofty, and yet tempting to chase, so I will say this for today and it will be enough.

The morning light has gone from an orange glow to a full bright white. We sit together and even if we don’t talk for a long time, we’re here.