“Everything I write is stupid,” I told the girls the other night. “I need to just stop.”

Of course they gave the obligatory, “No, Mom. We like it.”

But I was all phooey-on-everything.

Laurel said, “What if you just didn’t write every day?”

Now there’s a novel idea.

Some things feel a little wrong to write about — like my father’s decline. As cathartic as it was to write about my mother, the catharsis isn’t there this time. It documents, I suppose, like this morning’s conversation —

Dad: I had the strangest phone call this morning. I answered the phone and nobody was there.

Me: What phone did you answer?

Dad: The phone in my bedroom. It rang at 7 AM.

Me: You don’t have a phone in your bedroom.

Dad: Well, nobody was on the other end.

It’s such a sad documentation.

A lot of other things fall into the does-anyone-really-care-about-this category.

Like the indigo bunting that flew into the window the other day. While it lay stunned on the deck, I took this picture, so I could look it up to identify it. When the cat came trotting up the ramp, I ran out the door to shoo her into the house so she wouldn’t bother the bird. Then I picked up the bird and moved him to a safer place. He perched on my finger after I scooped my hand beneath, and he weighed about as much as popped popcorn. I placed him where I could see him from inside. About an hour later, he flew away. A fascinating story — with no point at all.

Sometimes writing feels so bleh.

A hiatus is in order.

Or, at the least, a taper.



28 thoughts on “Bleh

  1. Bleh or not, I really enjoyed that little ramble. The bird story is uplifting in a tiny blue bunting sort of way ….

  2. I use mine as a “sort of electronic diary” that other people can read.

    And I post in it only when I feel like it and have time.

  3. I am going to lovingly disagree. I love your writing; I look forward to it every day. It gives me a glimpse into your life from afar and makes you feel a lot closer than the width of the continent. You make me laugh, cry, and look at the world differently, all it a good way. I can understand needing a change of routine, but never think that your writing doesn’t matter, because it does.

  4. Oh Sally. Nothing you ever write is bleh! Everything bring some suet of inspiration. You are so clever with your words. And your love for your father is so evident. Please don’t punish us by not writing. I love reading your posts. And blue birds lying on porches and especially phones that don’t exist.

    1. Aw, Donna. You’re so very kind. I DO love my father — and I think that’s part of why writing about this stage in his life is so hard. I wish everyone knew him before all this, you know?

  5. Your writing is not blah. You consistently remind me to look at life with gratefulness, that it’s ok to feel things, and to enjoy the moments. The drama of Hollywood would like us to believe the ‘big’ things are what we should be looking for and noticing, when it’s really the beauty in the small things that make life worth living. I actually think you are incredibly gifted Sally! Write On…

  6. I think it’s what I like most… the bleh. The seemingly mundane. The calm.

    When you write, I get to know you better. Which I love. πŸ’›πŸŒΌπŸŒΈπŸ’›

    1. It’s when the blehs take over that we’re in trouble, right? Maybe they’re like seasonal allergies — they’ll run their course and disappear.

  7. Sweet Sally, take a break if you need to, but never think that your writing doesn’t matter. It matters terribly.

  8. And yet that blue bunting bit is lovely. And while the part about your dad is heartbreaking in the day-to-day of living with it, it’s kind of one of those stories you tell years down the road and with it comes a little burst of laughter. Our minds are such strange creations. Praying for you today!

    1. It’s so hard for me to find the laughter in the situation with my father. He really is (or was) one of the smartest people I’ve ever known.

      When my oldest brother passed away, someone referred to him as a unique combination of genius and compassion. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. That’s my father too.

      Thank you for your prayers.

  9. I bleh with (my) every post for years, now — but never yours. I would say that others reading you are or may soon have to deal with an aging parent. Letting them know what to expect — that it’s going to be devastating at times and not wave-awayable, is important. If it feels too invasive yet you need to be debriefed of it (we do — trust me, we do), then make it into a poem. Or a visual with torn book pages. Your posts are filled with love. You must know that by now. πŸ™‚ Go fishin’ if you have to, now and then, but not for long, please.

    1. Thank you so much. I’ve often said that nothing really prepares a person for parenting their parent. This has been by far the hardest stage of life for me. I think, though, that more and more people DO wave it off. Families are divided by distance and busyness, and certainly seem less hands-on in elder care than my mother’s or grandmother’s generations. I feel both privileged and exhausted to do what I do with my father.

      1. There is no time more exhausting in every way than such care, and yet, you’re absolutely right that it is a privilege.

    1. It’s funny, William, but I’ve thought more than once that it was very good of that bird to fly into my window. It’s hard to describe what it was like to hold that little life in my hand — it really weighed less than nothing — and then eventually see it fly away.

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