with an old issue: back pain a la 8 years ago when we spent Christmas in Hawaii. two visits to the chiropractor, one visit to my internist. but since then I’ve added yoga and haven’t taken any pain meds apart from NSAIDs. so the sciatic pain is not as bad. still it lingers.

and so there’s that. and this: my less than firm determination to write more this year. to somehow find the time and energy to pull together a handful of essays. sabbatical was only a year ago. I can’t recall what I did in 2015. I need a writing narrative–a story of my writing life that captures the moments when I connected with the page, when I braided the thoughts into something that lifted off, peeled off and clung to a window. a blog becoming a window clingy, or whatever those see-through sticker things are called. perhaps a brief log or journal recounting my weekly progress. a list of “things I’ve done” to account for the time that slips, slips, slips, slips, slips, slips.

meanwhile, some stuff:

• a viola for Renae, Peter Prier Violin shop, old wood and rosin, shelves of dissembled violins–like bowling ball shoes or ice skates in their designated boxes. and smoking, 7-11, smell on my jacket.
• no more spark, no more flutterings in the gut, in spite of the familiar smells and hugs, nothing. a quiet comfort and recognition of our older age, shared experiences, similar singleness and parenting positions. my need to return to the place of so much emotional energy and scratch about in it, see if it still resonates, still calls to me. I return to learn about myself, to see how far I’ve come. and to remind myself that I am more than that now.