Just so everyone's clear: it's not you, it's me.

I have 'fond' (those are air quotes) memories in the past of people pronouncing "I'm leaving!" in a huff, while taking a big pause at the metaphorical door (these are online communities we're talking about here, so all doors are metaphorical) to see if anyone cried out "Noooo! Don't leave us!"

There's a difference between doing what I just described, and recognizing that you are overloaded and distracted and just pulling the plug without telling anyone ahead of time.

I think back, and I know exactly where it started: a double wedding ring quilt that was sewn by my father's mother. I didn't know her well; let's just say there were severe family differences, but I was too young to be cognizant of that fact at the time. I just knew that I liked the quilt, and it kept me warm. When I look back through the eyes of adulthood, the eyes of someone who has now made a few quilts of her own, I know it was probably pieced out of clothing scraps, and the centers were either plain white cotton or unbleached muslin.

The batting was cotton. It's why I still like the low, dense loft of cotton now. I remember how this quilt felt against my body as a child, and that I seek that same sensation in quilts now. Polyester has the same warmth, but it's weirdly fluffy to me.

I've been thinking.  Not "I've been thinking" in terms of a lunch, an hour, an afternoon, a weekend, a month.  More like taking a month of Sundays to think.  A year, more like.  A year where nobody really heard from me, or might hear a sporadic email or call every now and then.  Little past that, and little of substance.  Little of it can be shared at all, much less publicly. Not all the stories I have in my head are mine to tell.

2009 -- would I repeat it again, given the chance?  Yes, I think I would, but I wish I'd had some idea ahead of time how much of a struggle it would be, personally and professionally. 

Those of you who have been reading here for a long time know that I don't often just post links to other articles. It's not my style to publish things without writing my own commentary, but I'll say this:  Take ten minutes out of your life to read this.

http://jeff.viapositiva.net/archives/2009/06/thoughts-murder

It won't go in the direction you probably think it'll go.

Take a moment—we none of us do that action enough, really—and think about who you are today, and who you once were.  Are you the same?  How have you changed?  Do you carry your life, your actions, your words with grace? 

Jeff—my Jeff, the spouseling, not the Jeff Eaton of this blog post—said something to me over the years that I have greatly appreciated: you cannot be the person you are today without the person you once were.

I've had my head firmly buried in Drupal for nearly two years now, and it's starting to show.  I've come a long way.  My starting point was "I have seen mentions of this software, I do not know what it does, but it might suit our needs."  Since then I've progressed to having built a multi-site install, managed by CVS—entirely on my own.  The development of my knowledge can be traced on my user account on drupal.org; my questions have slowly become more knowledgeable as I've fought my way—solo—through two very difficult conversions/migrations and a few others that were significantly easier.

The question:  what now?

I will be glad when this is over.

This has been a two-week span in which it felt like nothing went right, in which events would seem to fall into place only to spin out, away from my hands, out of my control yet again. Repeat ad infinitum, two weeks and counting.

I thought meltdowns were supposed to be teary, sobbing water fountains.  Instead, it was the hollowness of sitting on my spot on the couch on a Sunday morning and realizing I felt out of my depth, overwhelmed, and unable to exert any kind of control over the situation.

A situation which, Jeff has reminded me, I couldn't have fixed from the start.

* * * * *

Since pixels don't come with smell-o-vision, I must tell you that these words are being typed in a quiet house that smells of fresh salsa and roasting bell peppers.  The laptop (old, beaten up) is positioned so as to block out the setting sun, which does not come directly through my front door but close enough to force my pupils to readjust.  I have a small party to be at in an hour's time.  I must not be late, so I must write fast and speak rightly the first time.

The place, now: Huntsville, Alabama.
The place, then: rural Arkansas.

I was a child of the late 1970s, whose memories just missed Jimmy Carter but remembered Reagan dimly through an apolitical child's eye.  Those who read this site know my story well; I came from a union family in a former mining town.  My tiny hometown, well under three hundred souls at the time, all looked like me because they were almost all related to me.

Coming home from my mother's wedding, with thoughts of Washington and Arkansas and Alabama mixing reluctantly in my head like oil and water, the thought hit me. Last Q standing.

The standard life photos go up a lot faster than my version of the 365 Library Days project. I know from watching the other photos posted to the photo pool that what I'm doing is very different from what the other participants are doing. I'm not sure if my version quite qualifies as subverting the intent, or celebrating it in a different way.

For those of you far and near, a hug and a toast. We are in our comfortable clothes, Jeff and I, me tapping out words on a keyboard while he tidies the computer room behind me. We have plans for the evening, quiet plans with a new set of friends; with PHE falling shortly after New Year's, this holiday tends to be a calm weekend of preparation for us.It's found me doing everything from replacing burnt-out bulbs in the foyer to doing initial prep work for the PHE bar. I'm best described as living in a state of constant, low-level nervousness and excitement.