I’ll tell you: writing our memoirs can be hard work. Yesterday I blogged about Tasha, our half-coyote dog, and then dragged myself downstairs and lay utterly exhausted on the couch in front of the woodstove for at least an hour.
What is it about writing memories which both enlivens and tires us? Why does dredging around in the past physically deplete the body–and yet feel so downright exhilarating?
Usually I write a blog–like this one–and it just flows out of the typing fingers. No big deal. I take pictures and it’s just “snap”. No big deal. But having to remember, to dig, to dredge, to excavate…folks, you’ll need lots of naps when you try it.
But it’s worth it.
Thank you for those of you who are enjoying the memories.
P.S. These snowplows gleamed in the still-glass waters of the Portage Canal last Saturday evening before snow swirled up from the south and west. I have an entire series of reflections to show you later. Either before or after I muster the energy to reflect and create deeply from buried shards of memory in the archaeological dig of the mind…
I swear, folks, it’s more work than snowplowing.