I've lost track of the days. Cold, popped disc, husband's shoulder. Everything runs together as we wait for a call, for a healing, for an easing of the suffering (his far worse than mine but the suffering of others far worse than ours). Appropriate for Advent, this time of waiting.
I feel schizophrenic, too many voices in my head.
But that's because I am too many people: I am one kind of writer when on Facebook, another kind of writer when I do the blog, and a third kind, the real me, when I am here.  But not even totally real, not the real of my journal, that no one reads.
I have a million thoughts in my head and I have none.
Wrote this in my notebook last night: "I find myself returning spiritually to Christmas this year." That's all I could write because it's not exactly what I want to say. Wrote more in a longer piece but which one of me gets to publish that? Too long for Facebook? Too personal for work blog? But too important to let languish here for just our secret club of approved (non-stalking) readers.
I'm going to a church service tonight, the kind that are sometimes called "Blue Christmas" services but what this country church is calling a service of light and hope. Which is what I wrote a lot about in my notebook last night.