scribble . . . to write hastily or carelessly without regard to legibility, correctness, or considered thought
– Webster’s Third New International Dictionary (unabridged)
That’s what I’ll be doing in this space every morning. And lucky for you, it will be posted privately within the blog, so you won’t have to read my messy ruminations. Other posts about writing, reading, photos, nature walks, all the random “Beth’s world” stuff, including vignettes and little stories, will be shared in the clear. But not the scribbles.
Buck and I talked night into morning. We read in bed for hours, then turned out the lights, held hands (and toes, I hope that’s not too much information) in the way of content long-marrieds, and as our talk turned serious we finally got hungry and padded to the kitchen for milk and a fig newton.
We talked about aging, how it is no longer an abstraction. We talked about the weight and heft of memories in a long life. Buck reflected that memory is not a series of events, but a constant process of feeling, of sensation. You don’t just think of something that happened long ago, you feel it. It can be joy, but there’s an accumulation of loss and regret, too. Every one of his 76 years was in that handsome face at one this morning as we talked about the gifts and burdens of longevity.
I wrote yesterday of a portion of my “program of work” this year for writing. Buck and I are developing our own personal agenda to craft a living space and lifestyle that will carry us through the next decades in the independent style so crucial to our well-being and productivity. Not for the faint of heart, but then, denial is not our style.
I see the ink beginning to fade on this scribble . . . by tomorrow it will have faded, and any future writings in the “scribble sector” of this blog will be invisible.