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Guts

The hollow house houses voices and breathing and noise again. The boys arrive home and bring their noise. I love their noise. They leave their clutter and hand prints on the granite counter-tops and stainless steel fridge front. I love it. I miss it when they are gone. While I clean and wipe up their smudgey messes when they are here (and when they leave), I am not bothered by them in any way. It is the evidence of my family, that the little guys that I made have been here. It’s the tag of my heart. Love wuz here. I get hugs and we laugh. The standard tug o’war over which DVR’d TV show we shall watch. I record the shows we like so we can watch together. Vikings, Psych, Elementary but not the new season of River Monsters. Now, as they do homework, listening to their music, I sit on the sofa writing and watching Michael Mosley’s Guts on PBS.

It gets me thinking about the whole dialogue I am having about thinking and feeling. Thinking through problems and feeling them through. Some people suggest I over think. I may actually over feel. But in defense, it may be that many people under think and under feel. It is an abject apathy and an intellectual laziness. I know, emphatically, I’d rather feel and think more, have big emotions and a big brain than to exist in a tepid, mild space.

 

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