I often struggle between sharing too much and being fiercely private about my struggles. In a world already fraying at the edges, I hesitate to add my unique brand of grousing because what is one hard month in the grand scheme of things, right? Continue reading“Into each life some rain must fall.”
The pandemic continues, because why not? New mutations whoop with glee, rubbing their hands and waiting to be put into the game. We’re only a couple of Greek letters down; there’s plenty left to kill us all twice. 2021 continues, and the other day I prayed for a glitch in the matrix — something to shake us out of this endless landscape of fear and disease.
August is a busy month at casa de Pavi. We have an anniversary, half a dozen birthdays, and the official start of school. I turn 39 on the 5th, which I’m thinking big deal, except it also feels like a bit of a damp squib. Continue reading“39.”
Since I’ve gotten more serious about my writing, I’ve learned so much about how blogging works. It’s no longer getting an idea and putting it on paper or a screen. Everyone has opinions, everyone writes them down, everyone has access to a domain, so everyone has a blog, which means words are being created and edited and published and viewed and consumed at any given time. Continue reading“Important news! Please read.”
It’s been a weird pollen-y week here in California, and my sinuses are feeling it. I’ve been sniffling for a few days, assuring my daughter it’s not the COVID and stealth sneezing, to not worry her anymore. My first instinct has been to crash on the couch and drink soup, so I did that for half a day.Continue reading“Week 1.”
It’s pretty apparent I have been letting myself go for a while. I’m not very tall — 5’5” if I don’t slouch — so the extra weight shows. Folds exist where there were none before. I make this ungainly “unff” sound after climbing a flight of stairs. And my knees. Oh, my knees are writing angry letters to the editor.Continue reading“The one thing I can do.”
Some days, I feel spent even before I set my feet on the ground. Not physically, but on the creative front. I drink copious amounts of coffee, play with the kids, walk the dog and read an excellent book. But when I sit down in front of my screen, I come up with an enormous ball of blah. There are no ideas in the old noggin, not even a kernel of one — all I can hear is the empty echoing of half-thoughts, tumbleweeding across the arid landscape. Evenings have always been my favorite part of the day to write, but recently I’ve begun glancing at the watch, feeling the blankness grow and consume me as the clock approaches 7.Continue reading“Tumbleweed.”