101.

I clearly missed the pinnacle of the 100th blog. I did not notice until I came to post this, my 101st blog.

I am finding myself mostly in a place that is strange. A place that is just unfamiliar enough that I haven't yet learned the language for it. I grasp in the air, like it's around me, but I don't have the eyes to see it yet. Instead, I find myself newly obsessed with words. Words that describe anything I can hold onto for a moment. Poems, passages from books. I read them over and over again like they will make more sense of this foreign land I find myself in.

And they don't. At least, not exactly. They make sense. They hit my heart in a spot that is still easy for most things to find. I burst into tears of joy or I laugh with some sort of unnerving sadness I can't explain. Because I am not sad. I'm just a little amiss, skewed. Like an l and an i written too closely together to form an out of place u. It's not wrong; it's just not right either.

I am drawn here, to my blog, infrequently these days. I find silence and solitude perhaps too natural a place of understanding sometimes and other times I am out living too much life to make sense of it. But, when I do, it is almost always because of this feeling.

Tonight, the only thing that makes sense is a good story. Like The History of Love or Harry Potter. Maybe Girl Meets God in a certain light and Anne Lamott for a light snack.

So, tell me a story. But, make it good. It's doesn't have to be correct, but it's got to be true.