Sitting down at my desk again with the intention to write something after so many weeks of distractions only fueled my excuses not to do this exact thing. My favorite hard thing: make sense of the thoughts in my head by working it out on the page. How much making sense is hard to calculate but the task of assembling words to attempt meaning is like an excavation process for my brain. I need to empty my head to think more clearly. When ideas pile up and enough time passes I question the purpose of writing at all. Is it for you? Is it for me? What am I experiencing personally that connects more broadly to what those around might be feeling? The answer isn’t always clear, but I have been doing this long enough to pay attention to how these seemingly small moments in my life might relate to the world beyond me.

Over the holidays our family took a vacation and on it we did a zip lining excursion. If you know me, zip lining, or really any outdoor adventure activity beyond reading a book while in nature, is hardly one I would co-sign. Most people know this, and especially my kids. But as the saying goes, Do it for the kids! I did it for the kids. I did it for the version of Childhood they are compiling. To be a character in their story who can surprise everyone, disrupt their own comfort, and who may be better off for it. When we reflected on this activity later, I spoke about it more fondly than I remembered experiencing it. I was scared shitless yet comforted by the togetherness. There was this sense of having shared this experience, however terrifying, alongside people I love deeply that made me feel something I’m less familiar with. First of all, it disrupted this somewhat bitter, serious, un-fun narrative I like to believe about myself. And secondly, because zip lining is a useless activity. It doesn’t solve anything. It exists only to bask in feelings of wild and adventurous fun. And then the worst thing happened. I felt that useless, adventurous fun feeling (a little). And it wildly confused me.