To Begin Again

Apparently I am not cut out for the personal Internet essay (aka blogging) world.

This is mystifying since I am a very routine orientated person. I love a day with rhythm and direction: a list of things to do, a plan to deviate from. You'd think I'd fall into the world of blogging quickly and easily. But I don't, or I won't. Blogging is a little like journal writing, which I also, somewhat surprisingly, was never very good at. I'd write in fits and spurts and then pause for long gaps of time. When I look back over my journals I often think that what I was not writing about was so much more interesting than what I was. Often journals are filled with love-sick confessions and morose, self-indulgent diatribes. I wrote when I was unhappy and when I wasn't unhappy there wasn't time to write because I was too busy living. I look back over my journals, stacks and stacks or pretty books, some empty, others full, with a cruel twist of the stomach -- was I really that immature or self involved? The answer, at least for that moment, is Yes.

So there is more than a bit of tension that surrounds the weekly recording of life's highs and lows for all the world to see. But still, I try again. Why not?

It is late July, but the Pacific NW is gray and cold. It is unseasonably chilly and I even detect a hint of fall, though its firm arrival is still weeks away. I am wearing a cashmere sweater and am curled up on the couch, fighting the urge to get up and pour myself a glass of wine.

This morning I did all sorts of nice and luxurious things for myself; things I almost feel guilty about. First I went to an early morning yoga class, stretching and breathing to my heart's content. Then I went to the french bakery and drank one perfect cappucino, heaped with foam and dusted with sugar and cinnamon. Occasionally I'd dip the crust of my hazlenut cranberry roll into the foam and swirl it around a bit while I flipped through the pages of my library book. Then I had a massage -- a blessed, well deserved massage that left me invigorated and enthusiastic about life. And what better way to celebrate this new found verve than to go to the farmer's market. I bought pink peonies, cilantro, green onions, fava beans, and a large, large bunch of asparagus. All the bunches were beautiful and dainty and each cost $3.50. I paid and picked one and the guy manning the stand said, "Is that the one you want? It's so small." He reached for another, much larger bunch and handed it to me.

"But I'm a single girl," I said. "How much asparagus can I really eat?"

He smiled. "If you live alone, no one is telling you what to eat. You can eat as much asparagus as you want. Only aspargus if you want."

"And then a chocolate bar?" I said.

"And then a chocolate bar!" He replied.

So be it.