This was not the post I intended to write this morning. No, what follows is what I expected to write. It is this morning’s latest catastrophe that I did not expect. Julia turned 21 this weekend and I guess I should have written and posted with pictures before this morning because . . . well, because stuff happens and in this house, it happens like a hurricane or a tsunami.
We had a long, quiet weekend—celebrating with a big shopping at H Mart, an Asian supermarket, where Julia picked out old favorite noodle packs, candies and cookies. We found frozen pork buns and the best frozen dumplings we’ve ever had. She ventured into a jar of kimchi, found BTS merch and of course, we got some mochi. It was a black sesame mochi ball that held the lit candle that was ceremoniously carried into Cheshire’s dining room after we had feasted on Korean take out. We sang, Julia blew the candle out. I wished that we could have some sort of a normal birthday celebration at some future time, at the same time grateful for the generous scraps of what we have.
Julia and I began a new one on New Year’s Day although we hardly made any progress until this weekend. 1000 pieces that when finished will be a Venetian scene.
I love Venice and I hunger for traveling, so it is a bitter sweet endeavor. As I separate the lavender sky pieces from the butter colored Doge’s palace pieces, I wonder and wonder if I can begin to make summer plans. To Venice or London or, Julia’s desire, Japan. I know, the first two are cities and the third a country. Japan would take a lot more planning; I know nothing about Japan. Julia, however, has texted me the address of the park in Tokyo where cosplayers gather on weekends to show off their costumes. We will make that stop.
Last week, an acquaintance on the HILR email list, wrote that she was looking for ideas for a summer trip to northern Italy. I immediately responded, with a longer than expected description of Orta San Giulio, including restaurants, walks, the mysterious island in the middle of the Orta and the hydrangea in gardens in August. My enthusiasm leaking out of my fingers.
Winter break has been over for three day. I mean, this is the third day, and I have this overwhelming feeling of wanting to be alone and quiet. This morning after Julia boarded the school van, I took a deep breath and bathed in the house silence. I did not want to say a single word to anyone, and the usual morning pleasantries to the van driver (who is a very sweet man, by the way) were an incredible effort. Peculiar thing is that Julia has had three very easy mornings following a relatively calm and easy winter break.
The only challenge of the break, and indeed of the coming month (or so), is that she could not do her regular activities. There was no rowing last week and her zoom theater workshop was on break. The rowing class has now been cancelled for at least a week with the possibility of an extension. Oh, how that email read like the first school closings in 2020! The theater workshop which was rumored to go back to live meetings will stay on zoom, starting in February. Both these activities are important to our week, to her sanity. I hate to lose them for any time at all. She will still have meetings with her therapist and her art mentor. And for these, I am so grateful
I have kept a blog for a long time. Julia came home from China in 2006, my first post on my first blog was in September, 2005. The focus has changed over the years—adoption and its fall out, diagnosis and more fall out, more diagnoses, more fall out, therapy, school programs, transplant, death, single motherhood, autism, attachment, travel with my girl, moving, transitioning, shut down, covid and all of its fall out. And through it all I’ve kept writing, not always every day or even extremely regularly, but I’ve kept at it and, dare I say, somewhat improved in saying what is in my heart as much of the time as possible.
The process of writing is essential in my existence but rarely have I studied the process or routinely subjected my work to critique, save the kind words of friends and visitors to this blog. David was the one who took the courses, got the graduate degree, taught multiple kinds of writing; and he was successful in finishing and publishing novels. I have merely and persistently written—mostly journaling since a teen with a few forays into fiction.
But now. Now. Now. With a new year. I feel the tug of what may be next.