once again, into the breach

Don't ask me why I've been gone, because I don't really know. But I am, I'll say, trying to figure it out. Paying good money (you'd gasp if I told you the sum), to discover why it is I haven't been:

Writing or sleeping or journaling or playing.

Yoga-ing or reading or traveling or praying.

Competing or painting or dating or styling.

Crying or loving or falling or flying.

Or. . . or . . . or . . . or . . .

The ings that aren't are infinite.

But what's money for, if not to invest? And so I consider it a down payment on life. Independent study. A graduate degree in me that -- who knows? -- might lead to the kind that's made of ink and sheep. And better goodness done in the world. And even more bank to bank when I finally learn to ask for what I'm supposedly worth and not settle for the tuppence I think I am today.

You follow?

I barely do, but I've never been so happily confused in my life. Having been miserably confused, I know the difference.

It's called hope.

I've started praying again. And that's a step. There's been a fair share of crying. Which I hate and love and love and hate and hate and love and love and hate . . . . And now, defacto, here I write.

So I suppose there's some progress already. It's not money flushed.

And then today the good doctor said, "If I were you, I'd be writing every day."

And I thought, if you were me, you very obviously wouldn't, because that's not what me does.

So I can only guess that what she really meant is that if I were her being me I'd be writing every day.

In other words, I should be writing every day.

It was more of a quiet dare than I concrete assignment. Or maybe it wasn't even that. I do tend to read unnecessarily vast volumes between other people's lines.

But still. . . I'm going to give it a whirl and we'll just see who wins.