Melting snow

Today was a good day. Good for a walk through the melting snow. I strapped up my daughter into her Snugli and walked for a half hour. She started with her gibberish, and I chanted senseless sounds back at her, till we started having a nonsense conversation. The wind ruffled the bare branches, almost like lazy absent pats from a mother reading her book. A silvery sun. An old lady at the bus stop in a vivid green coat, the kinda green you see on Valentine's Day frog stuffed toys. The gravelly crunch of soft snow beneath my feet. A dull pain in my ears from the wind.

The woman made me think - age stops mattering the older you grow. When you're 16 and you have a year old at home, people go teenage pregnancy. When you're a 107 and that child is 91, no one bothers. Either the age no longer matters, or those numbers are too cumbersome for quick math.

Got a skeletal feel for a screenplay I have to get started on. I'm going to write about an old woman, something like Miss Daisy. Cranky old bitch, those kind are the most fun! Aim: 10 pages by Tuesday night. Have a meeting with my prof early Wednesday morning, so I better get the old man something to smile about.

I just noticed something about my writing. I tend to hold back. I've been reading Sliona's entries and I think she has a lot of courage to open herself up. I replied to one of her posts telling her what we thought of her didn't matter. In her context, yes. But in a larger context of what a blog functions as - hypocritical little me. We all write for the readership, and each time I come to this site I look quickly scroll down to see if I'm still somewhere on the ladder or not. The little numbers on the right, even a small increase does wonders to self esteem. It does matter to me what people who read my blogs think. Hence the safe entries about snow. I'm not being honest with my readers. More importantly, with myself. Open me up to myself. Find me the courage to face my shadow.