Writing Prompt: I’ve let myself just run on like that.

“I’ve let myself just run on like that. I’ve decided that saying something is better than saying something perfectly. Maybe I’ll go back and make it better. Maybe I won’t.”

~ Jan Wilberg, “Addicted”

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*Inspired by Jan Wilberg’s post, “Addicted” (read hers in full HERE),
I wanted to use the quote above as a writing prompt.

In letters. On the phone. Face to face. I ask too many questions. I want to know all the details, the trajectory, the plan of action. I’ve let myself just run on like that. Maybe I am predicting every possible scenario, maybe I am collecting story. Mark me anxious or curious or well-rounded in thought, but never mark me without words.

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In conversation with my father after my grandmother–his mother–passes away, I sit across from him, the span of his desk and piles of her papers between us. I wonder aloud about her growing up, his growing up. I learn that she had another sibling who died very young, his name left off of the family tree until years later when my grandmother or her sister or…(a detail I have forgotten now) wanted to acknowledge a baby brother, a missing piece to the puzzle of family. I learn that my father played the steel guitar when he was young–in a band! I have never known him to be musical, other than being a fan of Willie Nelson and the old greats. Perhaps because the house was quiet, perhaps because a death makes us more willing, I’ve let myself just run on like that, asking questions, uncovering answers, and he has too.

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My daughter goes without her phone one afternoon, and I panic. Well, first I get angry, sure that she is ignoring my text messages–I’m here. Where are you? Hello?, not taking my calls. THEN, my mind turns to the worst. I call another parent, circle the block several times. When answers finally come and she is just down the street, she gets into the car and I let loose with words. Questions. Assumptions. She is learning the art of communication. So am I. Still, I’ve let myself just run on like that, repeating myself for emphasis, falling into a lecture, hands in the air, until finally she stops me. I can see in her eyes she has had enough of my going on. And so have I. We drive in silence, through an intersection, we round a corner, we climb a hill. I lose sight of where I am. Fear got the best of me, I say. At home, we move to separate spaces. Later, I take her to dinner, knowing a change of scenery (and a change of topic) will bring us both back. I tell her about my yoga class that day, how the teacher talked about transitions between poses, how they are so hard but so important. We tend to rush through them, just wanting to get to the other side, and we miss so much. We don’t even think about the steps we must take to get from a warrior pose to a standing pose, tall and strong with arms out like a sunflower. Gaze lifted. Hearts open. Breathe in, breathe out.

I am in transition, I say.

And there is so much to learn.