I have been reading such wonderful blogs.
There is one, I follow a blog of hers, already, but, without actively looking for it, stumbled upon an old blog she kept a few years back. I clicked through and read. And read. It was like finding a diary on a bookshelf and picking it off and settling into a big chair, huddled with a cup of warm tea and a thick blanket. I felt a little guilty reading it, just in that it’s going through a person’s past – this blog, being considerably more personal than the one that she is writing, now – but it felt like a conversation with an old friend.
I found myself identifying so much with what was written. Seeing so many unedited versions of me.
There were things I had felt. Words I had wished I had written. Things that I had experienced or will experience.
I suppose, in that respect, all things reflect the human experience. There will be writings that I identify with that are universal. But sometimes, in certain places, you feel – well, I feel – like some things were written so that I can see them.
Written for me to find, so many years later. Like the universe is trying to tell me something.
I woke with a start at 3:33. I fumbled in the dark for my iPhone and the time, of course, I should have known.
I have been noticing that number, lately. Waking, sleeping, the number of messages in my inbox at work. It really isn’t showing up any more than normal, I tell myself, you’re just noticing it more often.
But it doesn’t feel that way.
I think of it as God’s number. Father, Son, Holy Ghost. Telling me that, “I’m still here.”
You’re still here.
After the past few months of having a bit more depression, a bit more sadness that I can’t explain, but still can’t get away from, things seem to be turning around, again. I know, from enough of my experience, that winter is still a few months from over, days still are shorter, I’ll still be driving in the dark. But that little number, as insignificant as it is, tells me to keep going. To keep moving. That I am with you.
That you are still here.