Words escape me. I want to write, I start post after post, draft after draft, all for naught. The whole situation makes me feel a bit disorganized, incoherent even, as if I am in some sense partially disconnected from myself, even as, at the same time, I am building routines and feeling more settled. Odd this, and yet good, filled with the promise of something new. Of course these promises also seem like a hollow echo, oft repeated and never realized.
Perhaps I am just sick of my own internal monologue. Not that I spend my days isolated or alone, but there seems to be some lack of adequate connection between action, thought, and word. Perhaps I am just waiting for some refinement in understanding of my relationship to the world, the I and It, or the I and You, (Thou if you remember the English translations of Martin Buber). My struggle at the moment is more along the line of finding a voice for the I part of that equation. It is not so much a situation of having lost a sense of self, but more of rediscovering a sense of voice. However, for a person who doesn't tend to fully understand what she thinks until she can put words ot it, voice and self are inextricably intertwined.
Enough already! No more words. Instead I offer these photos, taken with my phone from my walk this morning. I have consistently managed a walk of at least 3 miles every day for the past 10 days or so. Todays photos are simply from this mornings walk around my mother's subdivision outside of Dallas. I'll be home in Tennessee tomorrow. Words, once started, will eventually flow.
