Not just the little summer drizzle. The kind of rain that builds into a rhythmic melody on the roof and on the windows.
I’m sitting here in my parents’ kitchen drinking a big mug of green tea staring at a counter full of vegetables I want to ferment.
The Friday before I return to work after an overextended hiatus.
I thought about going back to bed after I dropped my daughter off at school. The sound of the rain and the thought of laying there under the covers and drifting off to the pitter patter of water on window was extremely hard to resist.
The only reason I didn’t, is because I know that next week I will completely rely on routine to get me through the week.
There is a lot of freedom in sharing yourself and your experiences with other people. In fact, it’s highly recommended as a type of therapy.
Sometimes, though, we go through these particular cycles in life where you have to draw back into yourself because of social mores, laws, the balance of risks and rewards for a particular action. Continue reading A failure of words→
I don’t believe in writer’s block, but something happens in the spring. I can write a thousand words every day in winter, but when the sun comes out, I want to live it not tell about it.
Still, things happen every day. Lessons are learned, experiences are had. Some you catalogue out of a sense of duty, some are buried away for contemplation on a rainy day, and some are fleeting, like a cool breeze on a warm day.
This is why you write every day. Some of us have minds like vast containers capable of storing every imaginable thing. And some of us have minds like cluttered drawers, chalk full of the detritus of our travels and adventures.
My nightstand looks like this. I cannot cram the old drawers shut any longer. The bottom drawer is full of small things that remind me of long ago. There are marathon bibs and medals, an action figure I’ve always loved, a badge a friend gave me, papers and notebooks I save, even if there are just a few notes in them. The top drawer is full of newer memories, manila envelopes with old tax statements, a knife I earned on an outdoor adventure, some newspaper clips from my reporting days and a leather pouch with some favorite pipe tobacco in it.
Writing is like this. You file away the pieces of your experience in sentences and paragraphs for later reference so you don’t have to make up the details later on.
You write to capture all the in betweens, the intangibles leftover from the stuff in the drawers.
I this way, you have a more complete picture of your life or the life you’re trying to create.
Like the collection of notebooks that makeup the better part of my recorded life, I have left a trail of blogs across the digital age.
I started many years ago on MySpace before moving to WordPress and BlogSpot, among others. I have been using Tumblr to keep track of my life and the adventures for the last few years.
And like those old journals I’ve kept through the years, even digital platforms get lost over time.
I have now collected my writings from the last few years in this place. This covers our departure from Montana and our lives in Alaska and now in Illinois.
Here you will find essays about life, food, adventures, journalism and, once in a while, my kids.
As for the name, well, sometimes you have to kill your heroes off in order to find your own pathway in life. Maybe not literally but figuratively. So herein I’m working on killing Ernest. But along the way you’re going to be hearing an awful lot about him.
Bookmark me, and come back from time to time if you like.