Life is dotted with sadness and hope.

I was just looking at the past.

Quite a bit.
Here are some of the things I saw:

The bits and pieces of a poster making kit that I bought back in the spring so J and Ty could make signs for the Little Rock Marathon.

I thought, life is dotted with sadness and hope.

I found a picture of my sister and Ethan when E was a round-faced baby.  When his little mouth wrapped around my mom's dog's name: "Bo Bo."  Beauregard Manny has been gone for a few years now.  He loved my mom the most.  When I watched him, and she was gone, his tail would uncurl and he would lie by the door waiting for her to come home.

I thought, I need to put this picture out again.  So I found a spot.

I found a picture of the group that went to the Southwest in 2004.  I looked at myself, at my smile.  I thought of who I was then, what I wanted, who I was, where I was.  Who I thought I was.  Who those people were and who they are now. 

And I thought, hope and sadness.  Without hope there is no future.  But there is no sadness, either.  Hope.

I pulled out my mixer and that reminded me of mixing cookie dough with Kym several years ago while it snowed outside. 

There is a pile of stuff in the middle of my kitchen that I pulled out of a cabinet because my dad is coming tomorrow to start taking out that cabinet and installing a dishwasher.  I've been throwing away things that I kept because I thought I might need them.  I don't.

I found a flat piece of wood and a tiny clock kit.  J was with me at Hobby Lobby when I bought that, probably 5 years ago.  I was going to make a mosaic clock.  I'm going to add it to the pile I'm giving away. 

I've looked at the past with wistfulness, with anger, with disbelief. 
I've looked for something that I know.

I remember when I first read something by Dorothy Allison, and then something else.  I got a small book filled with pictures and just a line or two on each page.  It is called Two or Three Things I Know For Sure.  Her aunt would say that, and each time she knew one thing for sure.

I remember the hope that I found when I first started reading lesbian literature.  Hope.  From voices.  Stories.  Lives.  Pictures.  A population for my blank state of mind.

Joan Didion talks about needing to stay familiar with your past selves, even the ones you don't like or want to remember, because, if you don't, those selves may come knocking on your door when you least want them to.  Who is knocking on my door? 

I know for sure that throwing a ball for a dog is a hopeful thing.  That taking care of someone you love is a blessing.  That the sound of the voices in the songs I am hearing are bittersweet.

That I have some cabinets in my heart that I need to clean out.

Last week I went for a run in the dark.  Aside from Tupelo mornings, that was my first dark run.  It was different.  I was much more alone with myself.  I did not dislike it.  I need a better flashlight.

I have a marathon on Saturday.  Marathons are hopeful things, and optimistic things.