Here I Am. I Am Here.

Those three small words, when arranged differently, have a whole different meaning.

On Wednesday I took a walk with a friend in Golden Gate Park. It had been years since I was on foot in the park and what a gift to have that in the middle of a crazy city. My walking companion was Donna, a friend and also my sister-in-law. We see each other now and then but this was the first time it was just the two of us, no brothers in sight. Donna has been one of my blog readers and was lamenting the fact that I stopped writing. My reasons, as I have previously stated, are based on the fact that I really have nothing to say. My life is small and simple and rather boring and who wants to read about that?  

But Donna nagged at me enough until I surrendered and said "OK, I will try again."  She reminded me that I have stated many times that it doesn't matter if anyone actually reads the blog, I write it for myself. It doesn't need to be profound or clever or even very interesting because who cares if anyone reads it; I write it for myself. To not write is to stop some kind of introspection, to stop attempting clarity and definition.  As Donna reminded me, even Joan Didion feels the same:  "I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear." 

So here I am. Writing again. Trying to write again.

I am here.