streaming thoughts at Barnes & Noble (unedited)

I like the back of the bookstore. I am alone among pages I will never read, allowed to listen to Tori Amos free of other people’s energy bouncing around. On the way to a wooden chair I learned there is a mommy blogging for dummies guide. I am a mommy. I am a blogger. I am not a mommy blogger. I enjoy reading the insights and experiences of a few women, and one man who publicly record the ins and outs and seemingly every minute of parenthood, but mostly, I get irritated. Judgmental and all that. I have the answers for the questions unasked, unsolicited advice sure to solve their woes, but really, I’m not kidding. Our family enjoys such a state of peace and delightedness with each other most of the time and I want to shout the answers to anyone who suffers unnecessarily. I am certain others have the answers for my woes as well, and I probably don’t listen, but as not listening is a not, I really don’t have specifics to report. When the kids are grown, then we can all compare notes, or something like that.

It boils down to this: Love, seek out true support, heal from childhood wounds, treat your child like a full person, Love, hug a lot, read together, be silly as much as possible, laugh at every opportunity, Love, listen to parents whose grown children have earned your admiration, spend lots of quiet time together, and a whole bunch of other things I’m sure are part of the mix, things I can’t think of just now.

Here I was going to write about “AUSTENtatious Crochet”ing, or at least wonder in written words, wonder at the influence of a few talented people, a handful among millions that stand out and steer generations, or at least entertain generations. I haven’t read any Jane Austen to know if she’s a guider or simply an excellent word chooser. I’ve tried a few times, but couldn’t get past page two in two separate books. maybe I’m not old enough yet. At fifty perhaps (I love that word) I will spend a year of Sunday’s behind Sense and Sensibility and all the rest. Or not.

We’re in the dream. Parked in a wooded grounds, making friends, roasting hotdogs over campfires my husband and sons have built together with logs dad and the boys sawed to the proper size on sunny autumn afternoons. We move southwesterly in a day or two, to park for the winter. We have friends and a history in the land we’re aiming for next. I will not need to ache for their company any longer, and I’ll try not to send my heart to Illinois too often, lest I miss the gift at hand.

Tori, her lovely, aching melody, is really bringing it all together. I am alone this evening, able to remember, and to be completely still in body and mind, thus able to wander the fields of my heart. I am running beside the carefree girl who lives in that wonderland.

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