July, so I only missed 2013-and-half by a little bit. But I’ve been surprised in this first almost-half how little I’ve actually written. I have enjoyed what little bit of time I’ve got to spend doing this, but it’s been so much harder than I anticipated. I’ll often write something and have it saved as a draft for months and then just trash it. Too short, too personal, too boring, no beginning, no ending, no point!

I think I have writers block-the illness. I wonder how they cure it? Whatever they do I hope it’s not shots in the stomach, like for arthritis or allergies. That has to be the worst.

July resolution? Blog more. Not write more. Just do more here.

There is nothing more universally true than the fact that cantaloupe ruins a fruit salad.

And Rascal Flatts isn’t a good band.

Everyone knows if you’re running late to get home at night you can turn your headlights off at the stoplights down the gravel roads and just keep rolling.

It’s proven Gilbert doesn’t like red.

It’s undeniable sleeping in a room with dolls is creepy, and so is neighbor Russell.

Car trips are to be measured in Wishbones.

If you’re going to have to do work outside you should do it in a swimsuit to get a tan…

And if there’s anywhere better on Earth than the Black Hills, we’ve never been there.

When I first met my husband one of the many interesting items in his bachelor pad was a large carboy half full of change. I was never very good at guessing “how many” were in a jar- but there was definitely over $500 in there. It weighed so much that when we got married if I wanted to move it I’d sit on my butt and push it around with my feet on the cold glass.

We always said it was our vacation fund, to go to Disney world or ride in a hot air balloon. But the idea of dumping out all those coins in exchange for a few numbers in our electronic bank broke my heart. Whatever the amount in the jar, it wasn’t worth enough for me to cash it in. No amount was going to be able to pay for the beauty of those silver, gold and rusty copper coins all thrown together behind murky glass.

Today I noticed that I was standing on a huge cliff. I wasn’t just standing on a mountain looking out over the distance, but I was standing really, really close to the edge of a huge drop off. And I realized, this is how life happens.

You spend what feels like forever climbing up to the top of this cliff, and all you’re thinking about is that this is all you’ve ever wanted. You can’t remember wanting anything more than getting to the top. You’re so driven to just get there you can’t think about anything else. But then you get to the top and you hardly even remember all that climbing. It didn’t really seem to take that long, or be that much work. You didn’t even realize you were getting close to the end until you were about to step off the edge and fall. So you look behind you and there are tons of peaks you’ve climbed.

All I wanted was to graduate and get out of town, so I climbed as fast as I could until there wasn’t even a cap and gown at the end. Then all I wanted was to get married, so I dug in and trekked it out until suddenly I was in Alabama. I wanted a new house, so we held hands and climbed as fast as two people can climb together. And suddenly we’re standing on top of this cliff together and I realize I whined the whole time how it was taking forever and my legs hurt and it wasn’t ever going to end… but now I know I’m about to fall off this cliff whether I like it or not. And once I fall, just like all those other ledges, there won’t be any climbing back up behind you.

It’s exactly like standing on a cliff. Like all your previous motion is going to push you forward and off the edge even though you’re not even trying anymore. I can feel the weightless feeling in my stomach and I’m about to plunge to the bottom.

It’s exactly like a cliff, and this is exactly how life happens to me.

I found a diary once. I knew it was a woman’s diary by the small, delicate and precise writing. I knew it was a diary- because only the first page had been written on.

“Memories- often so sweet, always so fleeting- can be pinned to a single sheet of paper… forever”

It was perfect. And it was the only thing written in the book.

I do not wonder who she was, or what she wanted to write. Because I know the woman is me, and her story is mine.

She had taken a ruler to write the words, the bottom of her letters unnaturally cut off, as the straight edge blocked their descent. So much care had been taken to make the first page beautiful. I believe the quote was her own, and she could have filled the whole book with beautiful words. But she didn’t, she stopped on a single perfection.

Sometimes I feel that way, that I’ve gotten out one singularly perfect thing, and that’s as far as I can get.