Dear friends, you may have noticed my lack of blog activity this summer.  Or not, because you really have to be paying attention to notice something that’s not there.  But I built up this idea that I was going to blog about Abilene as I prepared to move.  I did that because I was naive.  Well-intentioned, of course, but naive.  I’ve tried to write about places.  I’ve sat down and started posts about restaurants I love, a trip to the zoo.  I’ve got photos stored on my hard drive, waiting to be posted as illustrations to the gooey sentiment I had planned on writing.  But somehow, the words have never really gelled.  Nothing seems like the right thing to say, or the right approach to take.  Writer’s block, you know.

And then the moment passed.  I failed to ride the wave of bubbly inspiration that started this, and as the summer has progressed and my plans to move to Boston along with it, I no longer feel bright and bubbly and brave.  I feel scared.  And in my heart I’ve begun to grieve leaving Abilene.  Everyday I think how much I’ll miss the endless Texas skies and pastureland.  I think about how much I love my church.  My friends.  My mom and dad.  My beautiful, wonderful horses that were once all I wanted in the world.  And now, when I sit down to try to write about my life here, it feels like a sort of eulogy, and grief occludes the words I might say, and I remain silent.

So I’m not going to promise to write about Abilene.  I might, still, but no promises.  I don’t know what I’ll write about.  But writing makes me honest, so I intend to write about something.


4 thoughts on “Silence

  1. Hemingway once said something about how it was easier to write about Minnesota while sitting in a cafe in Paris, that distance from the subject was as important as familiarity with the subject. Maybe, as part of your grieving/growing process, you’ll think about these things you’ve taken notes about and pictures of, and write about them more easily in a few months. Maybe when you’re homesick, maybe when you’re adjusting to how different Boston is. Don’t worry. I think most authors write about the things they love eventually, whether they intend to or not.

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