His

I am a daughter. I was from the moment I was conceived. That’s just how it works. No matter what turns my path takes, I will always be one. I’m acutely aware of it now, because my father is sick.

Writing is one of the ways I process things. I don’t write consistently. At least, not as consistently as I would like. But when I do, it pretty consistently helps. I also write to connect. Which is ironic, given I usually keep most of what I write – private. Still…

Recently I was talking with a friend who knows a thing or two about writing, and blogging (and philosophy, and modern political thought, and…). She explained that for her posting what she had written is simply a final step in the process. That it externalizes it, whatever “it” is, so she can move on. There was something that sounded so compelling about that notion. More than sounded. I could feel it. It made sense. In this moment when I am seeking ways to deal with the impossible combination of emotions swirling inside, finding a way to process them and put them outside of me appeals. It seems like something worth trying. That is the reason for being of this blog. Its raison d’être. And I – am his.

That’s his nickname for me. He calls me his raison d’être. A bit of a mouthful for a little girl, really. There have been other, less French, ones over the years. But that one has been the most consistent. He still calls me that to this day. It sounds so very serious and dressy, and picture perfect. (His mother, no doubt, loved that about it). In truth we are not that. We are human and messy and not without our own bits of dark familial dysfunction. But so little of that seems to matter right now. Right now, it’s just about reasons for being.

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