Sometimes I wish I wasn't such an ardent thinker. Does that even make sense? All the thinking can be really heavy, and there are days (and weeks and months) when I really struggle beneath its weight. But there are also days when the thoughts are lighter and I can skip along, carrying them with little effort. That's just the way it is in this busy brain of mine, and I've come to know it, like home. I'm ok with it, really I am, and yet sometimes I do still wish I wasn't such an ardent thinker.
And then I stumble upon words like these:
And even though I read them years ago having discovered and devoured most things Plath in high school (thank you, Ms. Light and the first of many beloved AP English classes), they still kind of undo me. Because even though I'm an ardent thinker, and even though I relate to those words as if I wrote them myself, I don't think or write that clearly, that lyrically, that truthfully.
I don't want the leaves of my tree to blow away while I'm busy trying to choose.
I was digging through photos while writing R's nine month post the other day and I realized just how rarely I've picked up my camera in the last year. I really need to work on that. As much as I adore my iphone and as often as I capture our life with it, I believe that there will come a time when I will really treasure the photos taken with the "real" camera. So I guess I'd best start taking a lot more of them.
Lately, I've been thining about knitting. Who knows why. It seems like a cozy habit, peaceful and rhythmic. Truthfully, I'd likely make an abysmal knitter, but I've got a random inkling to give it a try. MIL, if you're reading, perhaps you'll share tips? :)
Baby Girl is peeping on the monitor signaling the end of naptime. There's no cohesive way to end this ramble, and so I will just go.
Until next time.