My blog is stuck. Because I’ve written about Louie here (and so many people have read about him), I don’t know how to move on. I feel the pull to get back to writing posts, but everything I can think of to say seems to trivial after what I’ve said and what I feel about losing Louie. My life has continued with all its mundane details. I have to figure out how to deal with my little preschool student who keeps stripping off all her clothes in the hallway. I have to start the Christmas shopping and figure out how to pay for it. I need to make the stuffing for Thanksgiving dinner. We are out of toilet paper.
As I’m sucked right back into the swirl of everyday life, I’ve at least been able to keep my grief and my memories of Louie at the top here on this page. But now, the words are clamoring to come out — words about all of these mundane things. If I let them, those words will push Louie down the page until he is no longer at the top. If I let them, they will push Louie off the front page all together.
Louie, himself, would tell me to get on with it. He was one to live every moment of every day. He felt the profound and the mundane to be one and the same. It is all life, equally valid, equally worthwhile, equally worth living. He has never needed to be on the front page to know his value. I imagine he would tell me he doesn’t need to be there now. He would certainly tell me to go buy the toilet paper.
So I guess it is time . . . moving on . . . .