Our blog’s first post. Well, it’s really the second post. The first post was written in a flurry of inspiration and inadvertently deleted in an attempt to attach a picture. This blogging thing, I used to know it. I used to be good at it. One might say that blogging many years ago directly led to this blog, and that’s the subject that was imminent when I started typing and before I veered off into explaining my ineptitude with the new-fangled blogging bells and whistles (i.e. blogging from an iphone app). Today, however, I am playing it safe and sticking with what I know: a good old-fashioned blog post written on a good old-fashioned computer with my quirky typemanship (is that a word?) that is not at all kosher, but surprisingly speedy. And accurate more often than not.
But yes, it was a blog that brought me here. If you get technical, it was more like four blogs. There was my blog, which was erased when I got divorced and was too caught up in turning my life right side up to remember to pay the host site its yearly fee. It seemed apropos that it would be erased just as I was finally blooming after the germination that occurred within a few months of those first published words many years ago. There was a popular, high profile blog which women like me, who’d felt an awakening of something deep inside and who timidly began clearing the brush away from an abstruse path, often happened upon. And then there was my wife’s blog, unknown by me at the time to be the glinting hint of the treasure waiting ahead.
There will be time to tell the story. It has all the makings of a story you will want to read. There is discovery, heartache, intrigue, deceit, grace and mercy, romance, and a happy ending that is, and will always be, punctuated by bittersweetness by simple virtue of humans being so very human and so very inclined to less than noble behavior when feeling uncertain and frightened.
I am the hero of this story.
I saw a tattoo with those words this week. And I am the hero of my story. And Scout is the hero of her story. My teenage son is currently in the dragon-slaying phase of his own story, but he’s already the hero–because he’s facing the dragon. My twelve year old is the gentle hero of his story. We are all so impressive, really. So are you.
No one gets this far through this crazy-tragic-sometimes-almost-magic-awful-beautiful life without heroic acts, one after another after another. We all save ourselves. The ones who don’t, usually perish while fruitlessly trying to save someone else. And aren’t those heroes too? Martyrs, but heroes?
I’m the hero. I wake up every day next to a woman I admire, respect, love, and adore and live a good, happy life full of beauty and family and passion and worth.
I’m the hero. That is the ending of my story, and the chapter most read by the people who know me. The obsure, seldom-read chapters in between are worth reading too. And perhaps I shall write them here.
Once upon a time . . . .