I’m posting one day and one and a half hours after my appointed time. My inner child is keening in a puddle of tears while the rest of me is standing by, arms crossed, more or less sneering ‘suck it up, sweetheart’.
First time ever—but no guarantees it’s the last.
That is a second ‘first’ where this blog is concerned—the first ‘first’ was my husband haltingly shared his uncertainty over my original post, as well as his feeling that I had blatantly crossed the line between sharing and over-sharing, between setting words and feelings on paper and over-exposing another human being.
He was not alone—in a moment of hesitation I texted him to continue the discussion begun the night before. It was a discussion I’m relieved by—there were no hard feelings or yelling or accusations, just a married couple fumbling along that line between ‘enough for you, too much for me’.
I’m not entirely certain it wasn’t too much for me too.
Given my nature I might have posted first and sorted myself out later but having another human being in my vicinity echoing my own vulnerability caused me to pause mid-flight. It also caused a putting-away of material that may or may not be revisited later on.
I am musing here, not muttering; it occurs to me that context is, once again, a crucial factor in the give and take of writing. Intimacies can be disguised within the realm of fiction, swaddled in prose and storytelling.
A revelatory blog written in the first person?
Not so much.
We handled the discussion gracefully (we won’t highlight previous sins committed on my part) and I was once again astonished by the power of words, of both the written and spoken variety.
An interesting topic is no longer remote—my lack of volubility this week is a testament to that. I suspect I will be ruminating over the nuances and implications of words and their context for quite some time.
Context appears to mean everything from where I’m standing, though I really have fuck-all clue where that is.
(And I am musing over that–not muttering…)