To Write, or To Live?

You may have noticed an absence of blogs the past few days. The 13th stands lonely and unoccupied; Pi Day likewise languishes without my blogging attentions. Even now, I type this between glancing out the window for the arrival of my friend, who I haven’t spent any time with since well before my wedding. Life gets in the way. My head is full of time spent with friends and time spent with students, a constant seesaw of work and play. Yesterday I hopped a bus and a train to St. Louis city with unwashed people of every race and age, and spent nine hours with my best friend in Target-and-Goodwill curtain-seeking girly mania, caught my breath at home for two minutes before rushing out the door for an evening of pizza and movie-watching with three of my favorite guys (my husband and two brothers). Crashed last night, woke up late, couldn’t resist a walk in the sunshine with redheaded woodpeckers and little children running in circles around their yard in a game of tag illustrated with exclamations in Spanish, worked on my papers, wrote the late students, edited the late papers, washed three days’ worth of dishes and swept mud and thrift store tags off the livingroom floor.

Shall I write, or shall I live? Most of the time I do both. But sometimes, in the crazy dance of living life, I think it’s okay to forget— temporarily— about the words.

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