walking the dog
it's clear out tonight, and cold. not so cold that it cuts through you, but cold enough to let the tips of you immediately know. your nose and your ears know well enough that given time the cold will seep into you, down to your very core.
the moon shines so brightly that a blurry glow radiates out from it. the clarity of the stars seems to make the temperature drop faster. staring into all that cold. all that empty. all that space.
bexley and i are the only ones out on this path tonight. it's solemn in a way. nothing but the sound of our footsteps and the occasional jingle of the leash. nothing except the sound of us, and my stern reprimands when he starts to pull too much.
nothing, but everything.
we pass by houses and lives. we pass by doors closing and voices wafting. and then we move on.
a jingling leash.
a few measures of a song. a light switches off.
the stars take me back to high school for a moment. i remember a poem i wrote for my english class in 11th grade, but i can't remember all of it. only the beginning.
"there are no stars out tonight.
nothing to even wish on.
no reassurance that it's all going to be okay."
that's all i remember. i know it ended on a better note. but my teacher praised me for turning the "wish upon a star" thing on its head. then he said it resolved too easily at the end, and rather easily convinced me to add "maybe" in there - i don't remember how we got from the beginning to the very end, but i changed the ending to "and tonight, maybe that's enough."
i'd like to find that poem.
it was one of the first times i wrote something and actually thought it was halfway decent. it was one of the first things i was praised for writing. one of the first times i realized how much i enjoyed putting my thoughts down in ink.
too often now i read back over what i've written and think it's mostly - if not all - crap. and i wonder what ever made me think i was halfway decent at this anyway?
and then i spiral. i question everything. seriously. everything.
one self-critical thought after another --
i'm clearly a bad writer. i'll never do anything but piddle around with it, no matter what i aspire to do. i can lie to myself all i want, it'll never happen. and i'm not a very good mom either. or wife. and i don't really have a purpose. what am i doing here again? why does any of this matter? i'm not really very good at anything. and no matter what it doesn't feel like it's good enough.
is that part of our humanity? to spiral?
i think maybe it is.
i've been lost in thought and my pace has slowed.
the seeping cold snaps me back and bexley and i push on faster.
it's time to go home. to walk back into the warmth of baby laughs and toddler hugs and the embrace of my husband.