on why I am writing; in three parts

I have received a few emails lately asking what is driving me to blog now. Is it therapeutic? Do I have something I feel that I need to say? It’s a good question, because blogging is such a new and different thing for me to do. I still feel sheepish about it…. Why would I presume others would want to spend their short time on this earth reading my words? But I have been pushing these thoughts aside and writing anyway.

The purpose behind my writing is a mystery to me. I can’t explain why I do it; I only know that I am driven to do so. I still hesitate with each entry, and pushing forth requires some leap of faith.

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Living with grief includes terrible moments of despair - these are private and not meant for public forum. Living with grief also carries moments of relief and joy - the ability to plan and look forward again; the time to reflect and recover; to remember with love. But the moments of despair and relief are less frequent for me.

For me, grief’s most steady companionship includes a soupy grey buzz that shifts my lens. This in betweenness is opaque but also elucidating and reflective; it feels worth explaining.

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When I was in Pittsburgh last week I met Abby for coffee in the lobby of the Warhol Museum, where she works. Abby is an amazing artist and inspiring human; we’ve been friends for more than 30 years. Abby had recently made a big life decision and was talking about what led up to it. She said: “I want to live bravely.”

Live bravely. I like it. The chance to be alive is such as precious gift.

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