Connection VII, Sylvia Angeli

I’m sitting here while my young daughter is downstairs by herself, singing and doing whatever it is she does in her quiet, little space, and I catch a few moments to look through some past writings and to try to get inspired – so cautiously – to begin blogging again. Obviously, I haven’t been around all that much, and yes (in case you’re asking) I do miss it.

I finished my book – really finished it – having done the last of the edits this past week. Well, I believe it will be the last of them. Who knows? I’ll probably be running after the mail carrier as he or she begins to distribute the final copies, yelling, “Wait! WAIT! I still have to add that comma in the second-to-last paragraph!”

Of course, that’s completely silly. I have no idea if a book would be distributed by a mail carrier, but I suspect not. I really have no idea how a book might be distributed, but I’m fairly certain that it wouldn’t be carted around through the neighborhood in the back of someone’s mail truck. And, make no mistake, I am certainly in no way close to being published to begin with.

But, there you are.

I think, though, that since I am done with this particular phase of my project, I might just stand to do some blogging, now. It’s important, I think, in order to maintain a bit of exercising that creative muscle, doing a little sparring with my motivated mind, and casting off any doubt that I might be a little rusty when it comes to sharing my idle and, at times, nonsensical thoughts. You don’t mind, do you? If I share my idiotic thoughts? And knock the rust off of my pitiably out-of-form blogging practice?

Well, and would I end the blogging altogether, if you *did* mind my idiotic thoughts? No. No, I wouldn’t. Sorry. No offense, but it’s very likely that I’ll keep on, even if none of it makes any sense, even if the world claps its little hands over its ears and hollers at me to Stop, Please, Stop! Sorry, but even then, I’ll most likely still state my piece, and to hell with the fusspots.

(Present company excluded, of course. I’m not calling you a fusspot, certainly. If anyone’s the fusspot around here, it’s probably me. In fact, I’m already grumbling about the fact that I haven’t had enough sleep, and I’ve just now remembered that I have to return the library books this afternoon, which sit smugly, looking vain and self-satisfied, in a pile under the table in the living room, and here I am now rambling on most idiotically).

(But, there you are).

It is, after all, the reason why we do this – this writing, this putting our thoughts down and hitting the “Publish” button, sending our words out into Wonderland. To be heard, and to get out whatever it is we need to get out, and to create whatever it is we need to create.

Creating, actually, gives me such a rush and sense of belonging in the universe, that my chest rages with joy, and I can clearly smell the sky and the breeze of soft rapture, and wrap myself up in it like it’s a warm blanket on this cold, cold day – and recognize the profundity of sharing myself with you – yes, you – and that you might respond in kind, and then we have a connection, which is really what we all want to begin with. To connect. And to be understood. To feel as if our humanity is just what it is – a humanity, so sweet and full of imperfection, it makes me weep.

In life, in these small moments of sheer happiness and horrible misery, of undisguised anger and frustration, of calm and peace and a sort of wistful discontent when we just sit and think about our lives and wish things were different, and sit and think about our lives and thank heaven that things are the way they are – during these moments of eating, sleeping, working, driving, walking, playing, crying, kissing, shouting, sitting still, digging our toes in the sand, whisking a mountain of snow off our car, and blinking our eyes at the sun, we all experience our world in an imperfect state, dreaming and, often blindly, groping for what we need – for a glimpse of love, of a shared and exquisite triumph. Maybe in these small pages, our connection will zap us awake and we can take with us some extraordinary thing – a thought, a sentence, an idea that essentially forms us  – transforms us – and allows something else to expand from it – that allows us to expand.

Perfect in our imperfection, we. And as long as we’re together and making a shadow of a movement in this – this dance of experience – our precious imperfection is not a bad place to reside.