It’s an occupational hazard for those of us who blog daily that we inevitably have those days when we either don’t feel like writing, don’t have anything new to say, are uninspired or any and all the other permutations associated with writer’s block. A wise person would save up all kinds of writing prompts and topics and have then at the ready for just such an occasion as this or for those occasions when one is traveling and needing something to pop on the blogsite real quick like. But no. Most nights I sit on my bed, propped against my study pillow with my laptop on my lap staring at the screen, tapping idly on the keyboard (not hard enough to actually type letters) waiting for inspiration to come. On most days, it actually arrives, though sometimes sluggish and laboriously slow. I am not entirely sure how I managed to write for these 900-plus days (over 700 of them consecutive without a break), but I’m pleased and grateful that I did.
It would be tempting (and perhaps easy) this evening to write about my gratitude for my father and his life. Four years ago today my father died, a few minutes before I arrived at the hospital to see him. Fortunately I had already been there for a few days, having flown out from California to essentially say goodbye to him. And even though I knew his death was imminent, I was nonetheless caught off guard by the reality of it when it happened. I am grateful for my Dad and will commemorate him quietly this year. I first wrote about his passing on the one-year anniversary of his death on September 23, 2011 and revisited it again last year. And while he has not been far from my thoughts over the past several days, I will leave you to read those earlier posts if you want to experience with me those last hours with my Dad. Tonight I will focus elsewhere.
Mostly tonight I am grateful for simple things. Like my sister Ruth, who came over on short notice to consult with me on a matter of wardrobe needed for an event next week. I am so grateful to my siblings, many of whom, with little notice and nothing more than a heartfelt, “Can you help me with this?” will find a way to show up and help out. “Sure, but you always know what to wear,” Ruth replied to my text. “Will it work for you if I come tonight?” No hesitation or questions, and in spite of the likelihood that she was tired having just gotten off work and not having changed clothes or eaten dinner, she came over, consulted, made suggestions, and played with Honor for a few minutes before heading home. As I think more about it I realize that it’s simply what we do for one another. I have little doubt that Ruth knows I’d do the same for her if she needed me to, perhaps not to consult with her on clothing choices but something more in line with some expertise or assistance that I can readily offer.
It’s what we do. My siblings have all in various ways helped me over the past few years. I’ve put out there that I needed something and they have, to a person, responded in one way or another. And on those occasions when I can do something for one of them (or their partners or children), I do my best to give in whatever ways I can–sometimes it’s advice, sometimes it’s a ride, sometimes it’s helping out in the yard. Whatever it might be, if it’s in my power or ability to do it, I’m there. It’s a family thing; it’s what we do. It is something that I try not to take for granted or take advantage of, but receive such blessings with love and deep gratitude. And so it is.
