There has been a movement slinking around the blogsphere. It’s not new and I’m behind on blogging about it because I’ve been too busy posting pretty photos of my life in Paris on Facebook.
The idea behind the movement is that the rosy and wonderful versions we present of ourselves online can be far from the truth. So a blogger named Jess Constable wrote some of the other stuff on her site. The vulnerable stuff. The stuff she’s afraid to tell you. I found out about it over at Little Brown Pen, and Oprah wrote about it, too. Then I watched Brené Brown talk about vulnerability at Ted. And after all this, my upper back seized up, which makes me cranky and makes me wonder what Louise L. Hay would say about all this. I think my back is telling me, “There is stuff to say, there is stuff to say, there is stuff to say.”
So here we go. I’m offloading here and now.
The things I don’t want to tell you:
Paris isn’t always great.
It has rained three times a day for months.
And I can’t make it poetic all the time
Because sometimes it’s just cold and wet.
And when it doesn’t smell like piss, it smells like smoke.
Aphids ate my geranium blooms.
I don’t even want to get into that metaphor.
I heard you need to spray geraniums with soapy water.
There are still no blooms
But there are suds when it rains.
It’ll have to do.
My rainbow bubble blooms.
Fragile and filling in while the buds simmer.
I think my hair is fine, but my Swiffer tells me
It’s getting finer all the time.
I get overwhelmed by the number of photos I take.
I feel pressure to handle it all.
Skype is good but it’s not that good.
My niece said yesterday
“the connection is down.”
She’s six and she’s right.
I freak out about money.
How to make it, save it, mend it.
It’s one of the many snags in my soul.
So much to see and do
So much to pay for.
I wonder about my painted letters
And think, c’mon, really? Letters?
This is how you’re going to get it done?
I have to breathe deep to find the strength
To reply with a quiet, “yes, and stop talking now.”
The French language continues to distance.
When will I turn on the TV and understand?
I think I’d understand the same if it were on Mute,
Especially with dubbed-over American cop shows.
I often feel mute when I walk around the city
But at least that TV show looks like a period piece
With a backdrop of bridges and statues and carved doors.
I jump a lot from sounds in my walls.
The invisible fleet scratching along the floorboards.
But then he walks in, looks at me and says,
“You love me still?”
And I look at him, nod and say
“When did you learn the word ‘Still’?”
He’s learning. I’m learning. We’re getting there.
But for today we are here.
We crack open our beer and cheer another day.
May we be so lucky to do it all again tomorrow.
The good, the bad and the rainy.