When I first started blogging, I spent a ton of time visiting other blogs and leaving comments. I genuinely enjoyed this. There was, and is, something magical about stumbling into the words and worlds of others and getting lost. There is something intense and exquisite about realizing that in most everything in life, we are not alone. And so, when I read others’ posts and realized this over and over, when I felt compelled to (and I so often did), I would leave my own words. My own musings. My own questions. My own voice. Me.

Sometimes, I would never hear back. I would leave words, open up, react, and wait. And nothing. Enter lovely feelings of confusion, sadness, frustration, disappointment.

But sometimes. Sometimes, I would hear back! A blogger would respond to my comment on her own site or, better yet, she would come visit me here. At my own place. She would read my words, my ramblings, and say something. I remember distinctly the night when Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary left her first comment here at ILI. It was a silly post about a feather ball chandelier I was considering for our new home and she said something witty and warm. I remember turning to Husband – we were at his parents’ home and about to go to bed – and saying, Babe, this blogger I love just left me a comment! I was so excited. It was indeed a moment for me.

And I remembered this as I plowed forward with this blogging thing. As the months piled up, so did the comments. I read each and every one and tried so hard to respond on my own site or on the commenting blogger’s site. Sometimes I did both. This felt good. Not because I felt I was meeting some unspoken obligation, but because there was real communication and conversation happening and I was part of it. I was meeting people, friends even, and learning about their lives. And they, in turn, were learning about mine. I felt satisfied and supported and less alone.

But something happened. Truth be told, I’m not sure what it was. It could have been that I plunged fiercely into the promotion of my first book, a process that was at once incredible and soul-zapping. It could have been that I was simply tired. Burnt-out by a trusty combination of small children, delayed grief, and little rest. It could have been that something in me began to rebel against the exposure this world sometimes seems to entail, that I longed for the privacy of latter day. It could have been many things.

But it wasn’t lack of enthusiasm, or affection. Never. This world, this web of lives and struggles and stories, continues to amaze me and inspire me. It has become part of me, essential to my being. Being here, scattering bits of self, has changed the way I think and see. I said it to Husband the other night as we were brushing our teeth, over the buzz of our matching Sonicaires: I think blogging has made me a better person. I said this. I did. And I believe it. There is something about this world, its very ether, that has widened me.

But the experience of blogging has changed and I am complicit in this change. For all of the reasons above (or none of them), I have all but stopped visiting fellow bloggers. And when I do visit, I rarely take the time to comment. And you know what? I hate this. It feels crappy and empty. And these days? I get comments, wonderful comments, from readers newer and older. And how often do I respond to these comments here or elsewhere? Rarely. Almost never. Again? Crappy. Empty.

And so. I have learned not to make outlandish promises I can’t keep. But I have also learned how important it is to be honest, to say, Hey, I am still figuring this out, so bear with me. I would like to do better. I have learned that in most struggles (maybe even this one?), I am leagues from alone. And so, I don’t know what will change. I still have young kids and one on the way. I am riddled with exhaustion. I have a book inside me that wants so desperately to be written before it is forgotten. I have a man to brush my teeth with and grow old with. I have few answers and many questions. But that is okay. That is life. My life.

A fan of practicality, I must end with an idea. For the next few days (or maybe the next few months), I’m going to keep my posts short and snack-sized. They will be thoughtful, but on the tiny side. Instead of laboring over my words, I will read yours. I will go back, post by post, through my archives and click through to blogs I’m sure I’ll love. I will leave some words. I will say something back. I’m excited.

And so. This is one of those trademark Aidan-esque insecurity-soaked posts that zigs and zags. What is this? Well, it is part confession, part apology, and all Me.

Thank you for reading my words, for listening to me. Now it’s my turn to read your words and listen to you.

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Do you agree that the blogging experience (and, hey, the life experience) is that much more enriching when it involves communication and conversation? Have your blogging patterns (reading, commenting) changed with time? When you leave a comment on a blog and never get a response, do you feel ignored or disappointed? If you have a blog or would like to point me to a blog you particularly enjoy, please leave the link in the comment box. And now, the biggie: In your life, do you feel that you are heard?

Four days. Four full days without screens. A holiday away. A time to say, and feel, thanks. I brought my computer, slipping it in. Just in case. But it stayed there, in my bag, its little light coming and going, a small beacon. There was no surfing. There were no emails. There was no posting. No writing at all.

Instead. Instead there was family and ferocious laughter and food. Instead, there was life. The kind of life that appears in sudden smiles and surprise hugs and pumpkin pies. The kind of life that cannot be planned or drafted or polished or reduced to words.

The kind of life I love.

Instead. Instead there were thoughts. The dancing kind. The gentle kind. The kind of thoughts laced with brightness. The kind of thoughts stitched with consciousness and confidence, with powers that too often elude: presence, peace.

Instead. Instead there were little girls. The sweet kind. The sweetest kind. The kind of girls full of gorgeous glee and innocence that has no choice but to fade as time does its work. The kind of girls who grow and learn, who become big people one day.

Four days without gadgets. Four days with goodness. Four exquisite, calorie-crammed, joy-jammed, life-laden days. Four days in which important lessons could have been learned, and might have been learned.

But here I am. Back in this spot. Settling at my screen. Something brings me again and again, over and over, to this place, to this space. There must be something magical here too, right? Something different and electric and essential. Why else would I bolt so quickly from the beauty just tasted? Why else would I veer from the vision I claim now, and return here, a good soldier in this mysterious march, to report for this duty of my own design?

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Did you unplug for the holiday too? If so, how did it feel? Do you ever stop to ponder who you’d be and what life would look like without screens? Are you ever tempted to unplug for good? What brings you back here, to this wilderness, time and time again?

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.”

Thornton Wilder

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This is the time. To stop. To think. To rest. To realize.

We all have so much. So many things. So many treasures.

We also have moments. Stretched before us. Not unlimited.

Take these moments. Take this time. Open your heart.

Let it breathe. And see. And feel.

It’s more than a word: Thanks.

Be conscious of your treasures.

Be alive in these moments.

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Happy Thanksgiving, all! See you on Monday.

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Among the many treasures of which I am conscious and for which I am thankful for at the moment? This nice little review of Life After Yes in the San Francisco Book Review! Did I mention that LAY would make a lovely and affordable holiday gift?

Toddler and I went on a date last week. She had been sick the night before with a whopping 104 fever, but miraculously woke up the next morning with no fever at all. To be safe, I kept her home from school. I emailed her Preschool teacher and said she’d be home that day and her teacher reminded me that it was Class Picture Day. Of course.

Toddler’s teacher very kindly offered that I could bring my girl in just for the fifteen minute picture slot and then whisk her away again. And so. I got Toddler spiffed up and we went to join the rest of her buddies for their group shot in the school gym. Turns out one of Toddler’s friends was also sick and she and her mom made a cameo just for pictures too. So, this fellow mom and I hung back and watched as our coiffed creatures lined up and smiled big like good little girls and boys.

Good.

This mom, a friend of mine, and I chatted about how much we like Preschool. About how our kids’ class in particular is made up of really a wonderful and diverse group of children. We didn’t have much time to talk because pictures were over quickly and our sickly (or not-so-sickly) girls bounded back to us. Toddler was sad to leave for the day. She wanted to stay and play, but I insisted that it was important that we not get her friends sick. I promised her we could have a Mommy day, that I would take her to lunch at a diner. I sweetened the deal by offering a pajama-shopping trip to the Gap. Done.

At lunch, while we waited for her grilled cheese and my soup, I told her that I had talked to her friend’s mommy and that we decided that we really love her class, that it is made up of a bunch of really good kids.

Good.

“Don’t you think there are so many really good kids in your class?”

Toddler squinted her eyes and looked at me dubiously.

“What?” I asked.

“Well,” she said and paused. “Some of the kids do not return their library books on time. And that is not good.”

I smiled. Oh, how I smiled. Our lunch arrived.

“No, sweetie. That’s not good. It’s important to return library books on time so other kids can take them out. But they are still good kids.”

Toddler had left goodness and moved on to her fries, but I was left thinking about this. Goodness. Badness. When do we learn these concepts? What was life be like before we become entrenched in these moral dichotomies? Maybe Toddler, sweet girl of mine, is on to something important: Maybe there aren’t good people and bad people. Just people who do good things and bad things.

Alas. I didn’t lose myself for too long in this fit of semantic distraction. We ate and talked some more. For some reason, I mentioned white chocolate. Toddler’s eyes lit up and her smile widened.

“What?” I asked.

“Chocolate is NOT white, Mommy!”

“Yes, babe. Some chocolate is. I promise.”

She giggled. And so, after I scarfed the majority of her grilled cheese and several of her fries, we paid our check. After finding some ravishing bear claw slippers at the Gap, I took Toddler to a local chocolatier. I scanned the offerings behind the glass and there they were. Tiny blocks of white chocolate decorated with bright red ladybugs. I bought two.

I handed her one. “See?” I said as she bit in.

Her eyes, big and blue and amazing, said it all. Yum.

And then we walked home holding hands. And something incredible or maybe just ordinary occurred to me: Once upon a time, years ago, I didn’t know what goodness and white chocolate were. Once upon a time, I was so innocent.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could go back there, to the place before good and bad, to the world where chocolate is simple and brown. A place without so many categories and complexities. I would go if I could. Just to visit.

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Do you ever long for the innocence of youth, for a purer time when there was still so much to learn and discover? Do you believe in goodness and badness (of people, of actions)? Do you think as a culture we are consciously or unconsciously too reliant on evaluative categories of good and bad? Are you a fan of white chocolate?

Recently, I have realized two things about myself. Two things I think I already knew, but things that have become clearer to me. First, I am forever on a hunt for words that make me understand self and world. This is why I am a sucker for the cute little quote books that are often sold in card shops. This, I imagine, is in part why I write. To weave together my own words into tapestries that might, someday, warm someone else.

The other thing? I am very impatient. I fashion goals and expect to meet them instantly. I assume that if I do not, I have failed in some critical regard. In particular, I am feeling this way about my second novel. As soon as I churned out the first one hundred pages, I realized that they do not quite embody the story I long to tell. Now? I am realizing that writing those first pages was a necessary, if prolonged, step in making me hone in on the arc of my newest tale. Book two might be born a bit later than I’d once hoped. This is okay. Good, even. Because (within reason) I am giving it the time it needs to breathe and mature, it will be a far better book.

Good things take time. Time and process are not the enemy. The following words – yes, from one of those card shop gems – say it better than I ever could:

When we think about the things that alter our lives in a moment, nearly all of them are bad: phone calls in the night, accidents, loss of jobs or loved ones, conversations with doctors bearing awful news. In fact, apart from a last-second touchdown, unexpected inheritance, winning the lottery, or a visitation from God, it is hard to imagine sudden good news. Virtually all the happiness-producing processes in our lives take time, usually a long time: learning new things, changing old behaviors, building satisfying relationships, raising children. This is why patience and determination are among life’s primary virtues.

- Gordon Livingston, M.D., Too Old, Too Late Smart: Thirty True Things You Need to Know Now

Oh, how true. Sometimes wonderful things appear to happen quickly. A baby is born! An agent is found! A book is published! A deal is made! A home is bought! In truth, these moments, these happenings, are the culmination points of processes that have taken time.

The best things in life do not happen overnight. They don’t. They come to us more gradually, in beautiful fits and starts, don’t they? Now, I just need to remember this.

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Do you agree that only bad things happen quickly? Are you a fan of quotations too? Do you think the words and theories of others help us better understand ourselves and our world? Are you full of patience and determination? Do you think those of us who struggle in these departments can work on cultivating more of these virtues?