The Ironies of Life
In October 2013, my 87-year-old mother who has progressive dementia moved in with my husband, Juan, and me. We wanted to take care of her, had hoped she would agree, and are grateful to have her in our daily lives, but I find it ironic that my very first blog post on "I Hike to Write" is being made when I am tethered. Stepping away from my responsibilities and slipping into the woods is temporarily on hold and I am having to find other ways to stay sane and to clear my brain enough to write words.
When I envisioned this blog, I planned on writing about the wildflowers and mountain streams, a running commentary on the wilderness and how it affects me. Well, I didn't post a thing after any of my forays into the woods! So much for intentions.
Now that I am shadowing my mother's every move to assure that she doesn't fall or to remind her how to wipe after she pees, I desperately covet my teeny bit of "me" time and I have discovered that my basic premise about needing to hike in order to write is not hard and fast. I have to put words down to make sense of what I experience now, whether I go on long mountain rambles or not. Maybe I have grown up or maybe I am desperate. No matter. I begin.
It's 8am and teatime with Mom, so I will close for now.
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