It has occurred to me
that I miss my blog. I miss the discipline of cranking out a complete -- and somewhat -- cohesive post every day. It takes the use of muscles that are becoming flaccid from disuse. At first, it was liberating not to have the responsibility to write, edit and post on my blog every 24 hours. As time has passed, I realize I am nostalgic for that thing that propelled me. More than anything, I miss my readers. I realized with a slow, but growing recognition, that I have created a relationship with each and every one of the kind people who have paused to read my thoughts for the day. I will notice details of life, observe nuances of behavior and study the unexpected direction that life takes me....all with an awareness and an excitement that I may have the privilege of sharing these things with others. With the same sudden cognition that comes when you pick up the phone to call a friend who has moved on or you choose a birthday card for your recently departed mother, I take note of an event that I want to share with you “my readers.” I want to comment on the tree frog that serenaded me for three nights. I consider sharing the profound joy and bittersweet sorrow that I am helping my 18-year old son move across the country to pursue his dream. I wake up with strings of words neatly packaged as phrases ready to insert in my latest essay. It occurs to me that I am faithful to my readers. “My readers” are a construct as real to me as God. They are not individuated, nor are they named. They are cloud, they are nebulous and they are undefined. They are waiting.