All That Happens is Wonderful

In the past, if I did not blog, something was wrong.

I may have been nursing a recent hurt or upset about something or even, for those months last winter, too low to rouse myself only to depress my readers. Not blogging could be seen as a statement of mindset.

It still can, but for wildly different reasons.

"I'd like to say first that any day you don't have a blog post, I smile. No post means you're enjoying yourself, likely in the company of someone very close to you. I have tried a couple of times to post a comment, but I get caught in a loop and it won't take. Then I would draft an email in my head and not send it because it really should be shared with your readers."
~ Leo, "Intel" email, July 25

Like a faceless priest absolving me of my childhood sins in the confessional (in my pre-heathen days), hearing one of my oldest friends was gratified when I didn't post exonerated me.

"But something has happened to the woman with the notebook. I have come home and sunk into my enjoyment of him as into a warm summer day. The journal is secondary. Everything is secondary...This is strange. Before, as soon as I came home from all kinds of places, I would sit down and write in my journal. Now I want to write to him, talk to him...To have a summer day like today and a night with him, I ask nothing more."
~Anais Nin, "Henry and June," my beach read

Of all the books to choose to reread while ensconced in Kitty Hawk oceanside earlier this week - and soley because I'd read a biography of Henry Miller at the beach in May - what could have better suited my mood than the unexpurgated diary of a writer and journalist completely enthralled?

I have not given up on this blog, but it's reassuring to know there is a literary precedent for my lack of attention to it. Even better, those who know me best applaud my absence.

As summer days and nights go - the air, the smells, the sun and moon, the company - these are mine alone. Blogging time is scarce these days.

Lucky me.