I’ve missed blogging lately.

But the thing is, I haven’t had much to say. Except for everything. And nothing.

Reading about Darcy and Caroline meeting made me miss this medium. Stalking Kevin always makes me miss it too (turns out we belong to the same swim club). Is it the community I miss? The writing? I don’t know, frankly. This morning, while reading a new-ish local blogger write about Lyme, I went back to read my first post, just about a year ago.

Yeah. I miss the writing.

I’ve been spending my time  solidly in the pursuit of the physical. New Rules of Lifting for Women: I am impressed. Sore. Awed. Impressed. Mostly sore. And I’m back in the pool. On a night when my husband was in the city for a night of fun, $20 bought me 40 minutes of uninterrupted swim time. Give two young boys $20 and no limits on what they can buy in the greasy spoon of a snack bar, and you can do descending 100s until the cows come home.

The first year mourning a loss, it takes its toll. I understand more about various cultures’ traditions surrounding death now. Widows wearing black for a year? Unveiling the headstone after a year? It makes sense. A full season’s worth of sadness and holidays and celebration and seasons and traditions… it makes sense they all have to pass before things feel right again.

We celebrated our fifteenth wedding anniversary last week, Paul and I. It’s our eldest’s ninth birthday in just a few days. The celebrations, the presents,  the smiles, the reasons to celebrate. What strikes me the hardest is the card that’s not in the mailbox, the card that won’t come ever again.

Lifting heavier, swimming faster, thinking less. It’s where I retreat. But there are worse things, right? Clothes fitting better, a shadow of a muscle emerging, confidence in my skin. iPod in my ears, with 60 seconds between sets. Staying focused on lap counts and intervals and blocking the rest out.

Trying my best.