Stories from a life in progress.

What story?

What story do I have to tell today?  What do I need to speak into the world?

I'm not sure.  I have ideas, but none of them feel especially urgent.

I could talk about playing with my nephew Smiley Boy today, how his grammy just made up a rice box for him to dig in with play cups and bowls, and how we built the tallest pile we could, and then dug the deepest hole.  I could tell you about making up silly words with him, how I turned the likeliest ones into scatting, and then how he made them into both song and dance, whirling around the living room in a joyous blur of short limbs and shouting, beat poet crossed with breaker, and me not able to stop giggling for the fun of it.  I could write about that.

Or I could write about the blobfish, which I heard of today and which tickles my fancy.  Seriously, a fish with this face?  Living at the bottom of the ocean?  How can I not find that fascinating?  It's the kind of thing that makes me wonder what on earth God is thinking when he creates some of his stuff ... and then it makes me wonder at the difference between me and Him, that he makes such a massive range of good things and I think some of them are strange.

I was musing this morning about work, how some of it we have to do and some of it we choose to do, and what differentiates them.  So many of my friends make things as their hobbies, and work very hard at it, and enjoy it very much.  But "work" is so often proscribed as what we do for money and nothing else.  What's the difference?  Why do we carve up our lives like that?  I wonder what that is, and maybe I could write about it.

I could write about moving, which is much on my mind.  I'm not sure I'm ready to write about that, or if I will ever be.  Do I want to stand up and talk about it?  Do I need to?  Questions my heart is asking, with no answers just yet.

Perhaps I could talk about food?  Last night my mother and I made a stew with spicy sausage and vegetables that I like very much, and it reminded me how much I like cooking sometimes, and food sometimes.  It seems strange to me that food has been so much a part of my health problems this year, while also being something that interests me very much, but only when I remember or can be bothered.  I'm not at all sure what's going on in there, but I'd rather like to sort it out.  And I think I'd rather like to work with food more than I have done yet.

What story does needs telling today?  There are always ideas, always possibilities.  Not always clarity though.  When I'm overfull of possibility, it's hard to reach in and grab what's important.  Sometimes it's hard to grab anything at all, stuck between too many options.

It's only mid-afternoon here.  How many more stories will I discover before the end of the day?  Which of them might I want to tell tomorrow?

I guess we'll see.