Writing and Bunnies

I sat at my computer last night. I don't spend time at my desk at night as a rule. But last night I was alone in the house and started looking at old posts. 

I read words I had written over the past several months. I read comments people had made. And I thought again how blogging is like a public diary. I can write for someone else to read, about all manner of things, some of them extremely personal, but I can't consistently write just for me.

When this all started it was for and about me. Lately I feel more and more compelled to make it meaningful. What I notice is the harder I try to attain that, the less meaning there is. If I write as if to myself, my true voice comes out. But if I shift my gaze for even a moment, that performer comes to the service -- shine, be impressive, get attention, make them proud. That doesn't help anyone, least of all me.

I sat and I read. And I stopped and I watched through my window as families went on walks, and runners work out the day's tension. I saw a bunny hop about in my yard nibbling clover. It hunkered down in the grass at the barking of a dog. Wild rabbits are slick and muscular. This one I've watched grow through the spring and into the summer. He's not skittish in the way I usually think of rabbits. He seems assured and confident. He just knows when it's better to run.

Maybe I need to take a few lessons from my summer friend.

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