I wrote to an old blogger friend, commented on his last post from five years ago. He replied, Whatever was inside of me that compelled me to write died. It started to feel like a job. I’ve already got a goddamn job and don’t need another one. Once joy goes out the window, ambition can’t be far behind.

It made me sad for him. I didn’t respond. I could hear his voice in the reply and remembered how it felt when I saw a new post of his in my feed. But I also understood. I guess I was more sad for me than him because it was another good thing that was over, the joy in his writing that reminded me of mine. Exile on Pain Street.

Now that Lily was home and it was almost Memorial Day I wanted to take the family and dog up the Teanaway to car camp by the river like we used to. But Charlotte had a birthday party that foiled the whole thing. A birthday party! We might never do that again, not with the dog at least.

It was Memorial Day weekend Brad and I went up there to climb Mt. Stuart that first time. It was so early in the season we had to park a mile from the trail head, the road was socked in with snow. It was that trip I cried I was so scared, looking down the side of it wondering how I was going to down climb that without slipping it was so steep, all ice, snow and rock. When I told the guys in my mountaineering club what I’d done they said I was crazy. We followed an avalanche runout to navigate our way back out. Did not summit. I begged Brad to turn around.

I normally put the flag out on Memorial Day and leave it up the whole summer, like my way of celebrating both my country and the summer. It’s so big when the breeze catches it it makes that cool sound large flags make in the wind, almost like the sail on a boat.

I’m now getting to the park just before 5 every morning and it’s barely dark, the light comes on so fast. I carry my new walking stick like a lance, tucked under one arm. With all the trees leafed out the forest sounds different when the wind comes through, like the rushing sound of the surf raking the sand as it recedes. All those micro sounds of the wet beach, porous, the leaves are like that the way the wind combs through.

We had to push out our plans to fly back East on account of the air traffic control (or lack of) at Newark airport. Once I tried to make plans with that blogger friend of mine Mark to meet up in the city before we flew home but it was too much trouble. I liked his writing so much I wanted to meet, to make the imagined relationship with him more real. To make me more real too. Every time a new post of his appeared I gobbled it up. It’s like his voice got into mine. Rereading his last post was like going back in time.

I get to the end of the day and I’m spent, and the end of my day comes early, 7:30. I’ve started putting the blinds down to keep the light out. Just because your mind moves fast doesn’t make you any smarter. I picture my mom and her brother and see myself headed the same route. Always thinking, what it does to you. 4:45 and I’m already late.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, Memoir

Tags: Creative Nonfiction, journal writing, pacific northwest