This blog is really a record. It’s a record of a process that I am in the midst of. That process is of trying to get somewhere. I am trying to get to Holland. Now, if you’ve actually read the essay–which is very short–you might think I am talking about raising a child with a disability. But I don’t mean that. I don’t have children. None of my imaginary children have disabilities either. I just mean I’m trying to get somewhere and it’s a place I never planned to go in the first place. It’s a place I’m not even sure I want to go sometimes, but it turns out that it’s the only place I can go. I can stay here, which is not that great a place, or I can to Holland. I mean, I can move forward or I can stay still. There aren’t other choices. So I am moving forward. Because Holland is the place you go after you have grieved for the place you aren’t anymore, and the place you go after you above also grieved for all the places you couldn’t go to. It’s the one place left as a possibility. And it turns out, Holland has tulips. It has museums. It’s beautiful. But it is Holland. It is not Italy. It isn’t the place I really chose.
I love it.