Well, so far my self-imposed prompt hasn't yielded the outpouring of blog wisdom that I was hoping to have. One of my friends has a knack for telling even the shortest of stories in minute detail, and I occasionally catch myself feeling like I'm doing the same and hoping that I'm not boring a patient and long-suffering listener. Through years of writing to page limits and column inches and editing myself (and others) mercilessly, however, I seem to have robbed myself of the ability to be verbose in print (or blog). None of the few memories that I have churned up to commit to this screen for posterity have yielded more than a few lines of text, despite all my efforts to embellish them.
As I pondered this dilemma, I realized that the problem lies not in my inability to recall the word-count-building details, but in the fact that I no longer see them as the most important element in capturing the meaning of the event. From where I'm standing now, funny moments have become bittersweet, painful experiences have been softened by time and distance, and I'm more inclined to try to fit the pieces of my past into the puzzle of the present than to see them in isolation. Part of me worries about losing sight of the person who lived all of those moments, but the rest of me finds it far more satisfying that I have a better picture of the person I am now.
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