During a family dinner tonight, my dad randomly turned to me and asked if I was growing my hair out.  I paused, mid sentence and just stared at him – sort of wondering if he was actually aware of the fact that 1. I’ve been “growing my hair out” for 3 years and 2. that I have had such significant breakage in the front section of my hair that I legitimately look like I have a mullet.  A few hours later my husband said something to me about my blog, which led to my (horrified) discovery that a draft I created nearly a year ago somehow triggered and automatically published to my blog yesterday morning.  As my husband laughed at the evening’s comments, now understanding my confusion, he said “I thought it was really odd that you would publish something with so many grammatical errors”; a statement which sent me into a mental tailspin that immediately moved me to middle-of the night action, which required that I:

1. Remember the web address on which my blog is housed
2. Remember the password to access my blog
3. Remember how to edit and create a blog

So here I am, at 1:00am, writing to you – or the currently 17 or so readers of yesterday’s post with apologies for my judgemental, disconnected, poorly written ramblings regarding persnickety, legwarmer-wearing former coworkers. 

Admittedly, it’s a bit odd that I’m so humiliated that something like THAT (yesterday’s unplanned, unedited post) was published for  – well, for the whole world to see.  I obviously know that the whole world WON’T be reading it, but it just feels so… invasive.  In many ways, I think blogs should be raw (well-written, but raw); opportunities to share thoughts and feelings and images that may otherwise feel overwhelming if said aloud, and I think I stopped writing last Spring, because that requirement… the one to be raw and honest and vulnerable… started to feel really, really difficult; and while words come easily, the art of crafting them into a story that runs like warm honey off the side of a spoon can require great effort and time, which is difficult when one is potentially struggling with a lack of inspiration.

Most of my life (after my childhood dream of becoming a garbage-collector came crashing to an end), I have dreamt about writing.  To be able to put into something concrete the phrases and thoughts that flow through one’s head, meanwhile inspiring or bringing others to laugh or cry - is an incredible gift and a powerful tool…  Unfortunately, however, most great (“published”) authors of which I know have either an immensely greater ratio of granola in their makeup than do I or have a significantly higher capacity for living with meager means for an extended period of time than do I…  both facts which have sort of mentally inhibited me from pursuing writing in any professional or formal sort of fashion.

The serenditipitous occurence of yesterday’s accidental post and tonight’s logging in to at least correct the punctuation and grammatical errors is cause for me to consider some things anew.  Literally moments before the conversation regarding my blog arose, my husband and I were talking about an inscription that lies on the first page of a book of Shakespeare writings I was given in 4th grade, which reads:

“Dear Joy, One thing that is necessary to become a good writer, is to study good writers; and no one is better than Shakespeare.  Love, Pam & Rafe”

I have held on to this book of Shakespeare writing not for its content (the book is actually a publication from the 1800s that paraphrases famous Shakespeare writings into words more easily understood by children), but for that inscription.  Those words, written to me, have been an incredible inspiration to me, for my whole life thus far to chase after my dreams by listening to and modeling myself after the greats… in any arena.

What’s difficult for me, as I type this now, and as I spoke with my husband tonight, is that the person who wrote those words, potentially without intending or knowing it, was writing something that provided a highway to running after that of which I dream, and now he’s gone.  Tragically, gone.  There’s hurt in my heart  – trying to put everything together – trying to take even this and connect it with how I should study to do something better… and I’m coming up dry.

Loss is so abstract – its force is so great, yet it cannot be captured or held.  Time goes, and is gone, and then it’s lost.  Moments that are - instantly become were… gone.  The look on a face, the sound of the voice, the opportunity to thank, to nurture, to be honest… gone – and despite efforts to grasp them with such intensity that our grip keeps these moments here with us, endlessly… they flit away, all the same, completely dismissive of our attachment to particular moments or times that exist before faces, voices, sounds become memories.

The truth, in writing, though, is that moments cannot be taken away or killed; once written, moments are made concrete through mere words – together forming a story, beckoning a sense of emotion.  If poorly pieced together, words lose a reader and confuse the message, but if assembled well, they  stir up a sense of ability, at times, of urgency, and follow their recipient through high times and low, a times a distant echo and at times a booming voice, urging us on to what must be the way.

I know that I’m now saying this too late… but thank you, Rafe, for putting that moment of inspiration into words, 23 years ago.  I’ve held onto that moment – those words – for a lifetime; the principle on which they are based appears in messages to my children, my approach to my career and in all things personal:  to become it, study it, linger over it, savor it – then go… and do it.

Although we’ve experienced a basically very mild Winter, the days and weeks of true Winter that we have had have been… painful (an opinion that I haven’t cared to keep silent).  When my seven or three year old inquire as to why I have to ask my husband to start my car ANYtime I leave the house between the months of November and April, his standard response to them is “because Mama is afraid of the cold”… which is… well, basically true.

However awful the cold is, there are some great things it brings in the world of fashion:

• Hats… namely the ability to gracefully cover an unwashed (for like 5 straight days) head of hair with a crazy orange stocking cap that fully covers all inches of greasy hair and actually look kind of cool and edgy while walking around in the mall
• Scarves… which disguise a multitude of holiday-weight gain flaws – namely muffin-top and pouchy stomach
• Suede shoes (although, ironically, also not fans of the elements)
• Tall Leather boots (which could arguably also be successfully fashionably prevalent with much more appealing, more Autumnal weather)

In keeping with the bottom two bullets, and in an effort to avoid the impending dismay regarding the cold weather,  I have spent considerable time contemplating my shoes in the recent months.  By accident, I fell madly in love with Vince Camuto earlier this Winter, as a result of my recent unrelated purchases of two pairs of trendy wardrobe “staples” in the footwear department.  Shortly after said purchases, I fell in love with the line’s new fragrance ::insert subtle hint to husband here::.  It was only by happenstance that I realized, a few weeks ago, that all three of my new favorite things came from the same designer.

The day after I made my Vince Camuto affection connection, it snowed and I found myself out with all three slightly feverish children at a doctor’s visit, hoping for a diagnosis of something that could be killed with antibiotics.  After struggling to the car from our front door and then into the clinic from our car, I was completely sweating and wondering how many people have pulled or strained at least one muscle while enrobed in slippery winter apparel and also trying to carry polyester/nylon clad small  children wearing 10 pound boots.

When finally my three children and I, each wearing winter coats, scarves, hats, mittens and a total of 57 pounds winter boots were checked in with the front desk, I realized that people were actually staring at us.  After checking to make sure that my very unwashed hair was tucked into my stocking cap and ensuring my coat was zipped up to my chin (thereby ensuring that the smell of my poor hygiene was NOT leaking out and attacking their noses), I was mildly annoyed by the looks and titters, which was only perpetuated by the fact that I  was perspiring like crazy after the haul into the clinic and the compounding warmth of my grease and odor-hiding attire.

As I contemplated the cause for amusement of our onlookers, I felt the vent below me kick on, prompting even profuse perspiration.  I wiggled my feet in my gigantic boots and wondered if I had wool/heat-induced hives on my forehead.  I glanced at my kiddos who had happily strewn coats, hats, mittens, even overshirts all about the waiting room and were playing in pajamas and boots.  I clomped around the waiting room in my 7,000 pound boots and grumbled silently about my perspiration and the stares… I mean, seriously, I reasoned - this is winter in the MIDWEST – people walk around looking like bank robbers all winter just to avoid frostbite while they get their mail… I had three sick kids in the middle of winter in the doctor’s waiting room and hadn’t showered in days.  Everything about this image seemed completely normal to me.   I glanced up at my three kids, now all mushed together in a chair, reading a book together and smiled.  Despite the sweat and struggle and miserable cold and seemingly corresponding debut of viruses and ear infections, this was a moment to savor.

As I took in the scene, I glanced down to the feet of each child, gigantic in comparison with their pj-clad bodies, due to the fact they were each still wearing a  unique color of rubber-toed, insulated and garishly heavy, laced boot.   Although a far cry from the elegance and style I have come to love in Vince Camuto’s line, there is something indelibly beautiful and sweet about three pairs of previously summer-grubby feet  turned white and clean and now covered with a version of the boots that elicit memories of my childhood.

The bitter cold of Winter is awful and terrible and downright depression-inducing, but children in snow and snow apparel is inarguably amazing and the images of them feels a lot like the life and vigor that is missing from the previously green fields and vibrantly colored gardens.  Despite my Wintery and cold-weather complaints, I do not think I could ever trade the moments struggling in slippery coats and injury-inducing boots for year-round warm weather bliss; these moments in bitter cold and dreary outdoor temperatures induce discovery of life moments and images that are precious and fresh-perspective giving… amused onlookers and all.