It's me. I've missed so much that I wanted to write, and for reasons that vary from the "really good excuse" type to, as my father would say, "pure, Dee-laziness." I'm never sure exactly what he meant by that, but I doubt it was good.
I wanted to write about the anniversary of my blog--my failings and shortcomings, my minor triumphs and things I've learned. I wanted to write about the death of Paul Scofield, and the world's loss of a great and humble man, as well as a luscious baritone voice. I wanted to write about work and home and Dear Daughter, and St. Augustine and the Norwegian and families and the bread I've wanted to bake and the rain we thought would never stop. I wanted to write a proper goodbye to Eight Belles and to explain my new haircut.
But, I didn't.
I'm very sorry.
I have missed writing. I have been reading a lot--books and blogs and the writing on the wall. I've done a lot of laundry--some more public than private. I've considered running for the local school board. I made some bad-ass asparagus soup last night.
To those of you who have stood in the wings, gently urging me to write again, I send a heartfelt thanks. To those of you who kept writing your own blogs, thereby giving me things to think and laugh about, I am eternally grateful. To those of you (well, perhaps "to you" would be more appropriate) who compared me to Lady Lazarus earlier this week, you're smarter than you know, and I'm not talking about your staggering capacity for arcana.
I have new photographs to share. I have lunches to make for tomorrow. I have this morning's coffee pot to rinse out. And I need just one more hug from my daughter.
More later. I promise.