.

i don't even know if i remember how to tell a story, it's been so long since i've written more than thirty words.  but my head is overflowing with pictures from our travels, with labels and laundry and packing children for camp, with summertime, and with questions about living this life.  so i think i ought to try.

in the beginning, when i was writing over at typepad and my kids were little and they napped and i typed while they slept, i remember my brother asking me, "who are you writing for?"  there was no audience then, it was just me - writing to, for, about myself - the most self-indulgent kind of writing, i suppose.  but it was a practice and i loved that.  there are things better written, i think, and puzzles to be worked out this way.  at least for me.  

i kept a journal - in longhand - during our travels this month.  each evening (sometimes the next morning) i wrote the story of our day in fine sharpie marker on the pages of a moleskine.  i pasted in each day's ticket stubs and trail maps with washi tape, and i remembered the melody of writing.  the cadence of telling a story.  i remembered my voice, scratchy as it may be.

so we'll see.  it's a practice, like kindness and gratitude and yoga.  and we'll see.