In the middle of the night, this is what I think

Of late I've found my creativity is lacking. The freelance writing I've found, which is little, offers no value. The subject matter is of little consequence and my name isn't even a part what I've written. It suits me fine, I'd much rather not be linked to five hundred words about car insurance.

The second site that was recommended to me is more of the same, albeit at a slightly higher price. I have yet to 'order' a topic to write about. It doesn't interest me, even though I was initially excited.

The problem is, I don't want to merely regurgitate facts, I want to document an experience.

I wonder if this attitude stems from simply being a person who hungers to be more meaningful in what they write. Or is that I really just can't gather the energy to be bothered?

If I was smart, I'd take my chances and write the not even remotely interesting article, pocket my measly $15 and be on to the next one. But something stops me. Pride? Quite possible I suppose.

I've always believed if you're going to do something you should do it well. I would like to make that be something enjoyable. Possibly even something that counts.

Have you done anything worth enjoying lately?

I'm still waiting…

BlogHer or Bust

I'm getting on the train in just over two hours to head into New York. I'll be tweeting like a maniac during the conference. If you want to follow along you can do so at

@BlogMamaAndrea

The Walk

Upon the sand of the shore I walk for a mile before I notice the shadow at my side. It is smaller than I remember. The grains of sand pass through my toes and the waves lap at the shoreline. The water is neither warm, nor cold. It is the middle ground of in-between. In the water, seaweed catches my foot and I shake it off. My shadow notices and shakes her head. It has been many days since I've been here.

The waves crest and break over and over, tumbling bits of shells and rocks and detritus upon the beach. I look down often searching for the elusive sea glass Amy Clampit wrote about so well. On the counter at home sits a jar waiting to be filled. It is unlikely that I will find any, but still I hunt. The solitude sneaks over me in the absence of sound. It's barely six am and I am alone, just me and my shadow.

What will we talk about today? I wonder. In the distance a gull calls out as it rises over the water and turns to flee towards the rising sun. We have talked about many things over our time together. Sometimes our talk is trivial; the weather, a book. Other times it is of difficult things and determination and more often than not there are questions that go unanswered.

It is not I who asks the first question today. My shadow wants to have a meaningful discussion which I find in discord with the silence. I am enjoying the heat of the rising sun upon my face, and I do not wish to speak. But my shadow never listens. My shadow creates its own space and as I turn my head, I hear the demands.

When? Why? Where?

I don't know the answers and I don't want to seek them today. Today I just want to walk upon the soft sand and ignore the shadow at my side. The one that is demanding a meeting I don't want to attend. I kick up the sand and stoop to toss a rock into the waves. My shadow is silent, waiting. Will I answer?

I think not for today. For today, I only wish to be.

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Happy Fourth of July!

AMERICA FOR ME
Henry Van Dyke

Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down 

Among the famous places and cities of renown, 
To admire the crumbly castles and the statues of their kings,
– But now I think I’ve had enough of antiquated things. 

So it’s home again, and home again, America for me! 
My heart is turning home again, and there I long to be, 
In the land of youth and freedom beyond the ocean bars 
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Oh, London is a man’s town, there’s power in the air; 
And Paris is a woman’s town, with flowers in the hair; 
And it’s sweet to dream in Venice, and it’s great to study Rome; 
But when it comes to living … there is no place like home. 

I like the German fir-woods, in green battalions drilled; 
I like the gardens of Versailles with flashing fountains filled; 
But, oh, to take your hand, my dear, and ramble for a day 
In the friendly western woodland where Nature has her way! 

I know that Europe’s wonderful, yet something seems to lack: 
The Past is too much with her, and the people looking back. 
But the glory of the Present is to make our Future free, 
We love our land for what she is and what she is to be. 

Oh, it’s home again, and home again, America for me! 
I want a ship that’s westward bound to plough the rolling sea 
To the blessed Land of Room Enough beyond the ocean bars 
Where the air is full of sunlight and the flag is full of stars.

Moving is exhausting

Chick finally passed out day two hour nine. I'm hoping her nap now means she still sleeps on the drive, which is yet to come.

The run down this far (cause there's always drama when this family moves).

1. The moving van couldn't get into the development with our previous snows (5034 inches). It also snowed four inches overnight. The movers had to go rent a small U-Haul truck and load it, then shuttle it to the actual moving truck. The actual truck also got stuck trying to remove itself from not being able to make the turn. A wrecker and the WW Township police were involved. Good times. The huge moving truck is parked over at the WalMart. I told Thor we were just moving the stuff to wally world and having a tag sale. (I think he actually believed me for a bit there.)

2. Crazy landlady is a place I'm just not going to go right now (my blood pressure will thank me for holding my tongue.)

3. We (okay 'they') should be done by 8 or so. That means we will reach Pittsburg (the halfway point) about 1-2 in the morning – provided the roads are good. Lot's of coffee is in the forecast.

Here's hoping the drive is less eventful than the actual moving of boxes.

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