Okay, it's official. We've now both had our crying jags and our subsequent therapy sessions (online Scrabble for one of us and a cup of hot tea sitting in the daisies for the other.) Fortunately, as one hopes for in any good partnership, we didn't fall apart on the same day (I'm fine now, Mom. Really. You don't need to worry but I love that you do.)
Writing is hard. It brings stuff up to the surface, much the way the San Miguel river is so muddy after a churning rain storm. Muddy and dangerous, with the power to sweep one away and pull one under (Virginia Woolf, anyone?). Writing a week after one's divorce is final adds some significant snow melt to the river's flow. Melting, as in dissolving, as in Dissolution Decree. A lot of endings: school year, relationship, thirties...
But of course new beginnings sprout up, like the strawberries hidden in the tundra at the top of the Gondola ride. Invisible at first, but there for the tenacious hunter to find and deliciously sweet with a flavor belied by their size. Lucky bears. Lucky me.
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