The thing about writing a blog is that you, you meaning I, I write for myself mostly. I write because it’s what I have to do sometimes. Sometimes I write to amuse myself, sometimes to make sense of things, sometimes to challenge myself, sometimes to conquer my sadness. The last essay I wrote was to do all of those things.

            Sometimes (this afternoon), I’ll have a thought while I’m raking the leaves, and it won’t let me go. Then I’ll fling down the rake and I’ll tear into the house and wring out my mind without even stopping to take off my coat. Other times I have to force myself to sit down at the computer. Still other times I say the heck with it and continue raking the leaves while talking out loud to myself. Good thing I live in the country.

            Having explained my egocentric reason for writing my haphazard blog, I also admit that I am thrilled when I see that people have read my words.

            There is a darker, shaded green, side to me that thinks, damn, why can’t I get 100,000,000 viewers like Taylor Swift or Stephen King probably does? LOL! Laughing through my tears of envy. Why can’t I be like those cute little kids on Instagram who say something funny or cliff -dive or something and suddenly they are an overnight sensation?

            I try to walk away from this petty self, but you try to walk away from your uglier self, and eventually you run into the barrier that is your own skin every time. And then you turn back and take a peek at your daily WordPress stats. No views today, rats!

            Or, like today, four views! Hooray! And they are from the United Kingdom. Hmm! Who in the United Kingdom is looking at my humble blog? Could it be…? Prince, no, KING CHARLES? Or Camilla? Or maybe Elton John? Adele? Who knows?  I don’t. I’ll just assume.

            Anyway, when I retired a year and a half ago, another teacher asked me what was I going to do next. Any big plans?  He told me that his brother’s first goal upon retiring was to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. Holy smokes, I thought. I have no desire to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. For one thing, I am afraid of heights, and from all accounts, it’s pretty tall. My next thought was, well, I do have a climb to make, the treacherous climb up the stairs to my attic where a hellscape of old school projects, discarded clothes, and many, many wicker baskets await rediscovery. I will make that climb, I will purge that attic of all the detritus of the decades, and then I will breathe the rarified air in triumph.

            A year and a half later, and it hasn’t happened yet. It’s still all there, waiting to be conquered. Did I mention my daughter’s ten-year-old wedding bouquet that is hanging from the rafters? Still there, all dried up.  I’ll probably get to it.

            So far, I haven’t really started training my border collie to be a therapy dog yet either. She can sit though. And shake.

            Nor have I gotten in the best shape of my life. I’m still a little bit of a fatty. But I’m now a bit of a fatty who does Yoga. Don’t try to picture that.

            I have come to a realization, though, that I do have a personal Mount Kilimanjaro. My Mount Kilimanjaro is my writing.

             I have made some progress on that path. I’ve kept writing this haphazard blog, I’ve written a eulogy, I’ve written a little children’s tale about a hound dog. I’m writing my Storyworth Memoir, but, alas, I’m slightly behind–by 20 chapters or so. Do you know what Storyworth is?  It’s an on-line enterprise where the mysterious Storyworth people send you a prompt every week, and you answer it or write a chapter of your choosing. When you are done, at the end of a year (plus three extra months if needed, thank God!), they send you a hard copy of your memoir.  You have written a book! This is something a thoughtful loved-one might order for you for Christmas, thank you, Mariah. You know I mean that! I’m doing it in my own procrastinating, easily-distracted-by-a-snowflake way.

             I’m on my way through the foothills; I’m writing!

            Anyway, on this week before Thanksgiving, I am very grateful to you, yes you, whoever you are, who has taken the time to read this little ditty.  A million thanks. You probably didn’t even realize that you made my day just by reading my words.  And if you actually happen to be King Charles, Cheerio, Sir!