I miss writing.

I do. I miss it terribly.
I miss writing like it’s a limb that’s been asleep and I’m just now shaking it awake;
It hurts a bit, it’s still uncomfortable, and I do not yet think I can bear weight on it.
I miss it so much that I ache.
But it’s been hard to write.
Not hard because life’s been hard (which it has, and it hasn’t)
but hard because it is hard to put that first bit of pressure down on that sleepy leg, knowing that the pins and needles are coming.
But it’s the kind of hard that is hard but good.
And sometimes that’s the best kind of hard.
So, here goes.
Tonight, I wrote the first actual paragraph (with real punctuation) that I have in months.
(I have, in the interim, become quite skilled at the emoticon, I should note.)
It was on Facebook, if you can believe it.
(You can. I know you can. ;-)!)
It was for my sister. For some reason, that kid always opens the floodgates for me. And no. There was no pun intended here. You’ll see why. This is what I wrote:
This time last week we were plagued with the anxiety of the coming storm. Sandy, with her winds and rain, brought fear, chaos and devastation to our coast. Those close to me lost so much at Sandy’s brutal hands; I’ve watched, helpless and sad, as our dear friends have lost their electricity, phones and water, their homes and properties, their family businesses…as well as things intangible and unquantifiable. While I have mixed feelings about what a massive race run along dark and dilapidated streets would mean, the NYC Marathon is now another sad casualty of this storm. For on Monday, I worried because my little sister had lost her power and phone service, and her safe place to live in a city in which she is a stranger; But tonight, I worry because she has lost something, while different, no less great; the promise of the finish line she has been training for, fantasizing about and working towards for months. So as I continue to ache for the damage that Sandy has brought to our cities, homes and friends, I also ache for my baby sister, and the loss of her (little AND big) dream. — 
And I don’t know why this little note did it to me,
but boy did it do what it did. What it do.
It made me want to write in a way that I haven’t felt in a long, long, painfully long time.
It made me want to write my stories, my chronology,
to write love songs and poems and with sidewalk chalk on the front stoop.
It made me want to stomp on my leg, no matter how much the recirculation would make me want to scream.
It was like I could not get the words out fast enough.
In fact, full disclosure, I’m wading through a sea of typos right now. My fingers can’t keep up with the deluge that is pouring out of me. Please forgive me.
The raw emotions that coursed through me this week
as the rain pelted down on my roof, and the wind batted fiercely at my windows,
have been almost too much to bear. Certainly too much to keep inside. For this storm did not scare me in what it was in actuality, rather it scared me in what it represented; The ephemeral nature of our homes, our comforts, our lives and all that we know.
In it’s vastness,
with it’s almost effortlessly epic power,
it made me feel so small.
Made me feel out of control.
And so I write.
And it’s scary. Because I don’t know that I know how to do it anymore.
I’m forced to limp along as I go. My leg is still not strong.
But on it I will still stand. Until the muscles remember how to operate. Until the tingling goes away.
Since my last entry, so much has happened. In my life
and in yours.
Life has become more vibrant in some ways,
and seems more fragile in others.
In the past month, 4 of my very best friends’ grandmothers have died. It doesn’t make sense to me. I have felt so lucky to be able to hug these friends, to remind them of how much I love them (I do. I love them so much) but it also makes me sad. And confused.
I don’t like seeing my friends sad.
I wish I could take away their pain.
Tonight, when we got the call about the Marathon, I watched my sister’s face as it fell. As she fell to pieces. Earlier today, we chatted excitedly about her plans for Sunday. What she would eat. What she would wear. The different phrases we would use to adorn the hats and t-shirts and tiaras we would make to show her our support as we cheered her along her way. We synced our phones so that we could track her progress. We made plans.
I saw my sister brimming with confidence,
with promise,
with pure, unbridled excitement.
So tonight, when she found out about it’s cancellation
(which, please let me note, we all understand. My family and I are all so sensitive to the situation in the city and completely support the Mayor’s decision)
my heart fell with hers. It sucks. Plain and simple. Not as much as flooded homes and downed trees and destruction and devastation suck, of course. Not even close. But it sucks, nonetheless.
My sister lost power this week during the height of Sandy’s wrath. She lost phone service, hot water and any ability to travel across her city. She had no way to contact her loved ones, clean her clothes, and had to hitchhike to work across town.
But tonight’s loss hurt the most.
Not because she is a fierce competitor. Nor does she lack the ability to put life’s perils into perspective.
My sister was running the New York Marathon for The American Cancer Society. She was running in honor
and in memory
of people we love with all of our hearts.
She was running to honor our father, our aunt, our grandfather and our dear friends, who have all fought cancer and won.
And she was running for our uncle, our grandmother, and her best friend
who were not so lucky.
She wasn’t running to beat a time. She wasn’t running for bragging rights. She was running because none of us can control things in life.
She certainly cannot. But she can run.
And so, we can’t go back in time and stop Sandy.
We can’t go back to Tuesday to tell the Mayor to call the race off then.
We can’t give any of our loved ones back what they have lost this week,
even though we really, really, really wish we could.
she can run.
She can, even though her heart breaks.
And I can walk.
I can walk even though my foot is asleep.
And we will.
and all.


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