will it be yes, or will it be sorry?

Every telephone ring, every heartbeat stinging
w
hen she thought it was God calling her.
~Paula Cole~

Country Road by Chip ForelliAfter taking a (kinda-sorta) long hiatus from blogging, I’ve spent a bit of time over the past week revisiting my writings from 2009 through the lone entry two spring seasons past.  As in the Year of Our Lord two thousand and twelve.

HALLELUJAH.

Lingering over some of the entries that I felt I did a particularly concise job of expressing myself, I attempted to suss out just why  I haven’t written in so long.   Nearly two years.  As someone who practices acute self-observation on a daily basis, in the re-reading I was keenly aware of the fact that blogging, in fact, gave me an instrument for emotional release.

TWO YEARS IS A LONG TIME TO KEEP THE CONSTANT PING-PONGING IN MY HEAD UNDER WRAP.  IMPLODING IN THREE, TWO …

I am wired to be (very) introspective and muse (ad nauseum), unfortunately, it appears I do not have the stick-to-it-tiveness nor patience to regurgitate more than five hundred words in a sitting nor for, apparently, long periods of time.  It’s a rather discouraging fact that real-life authors are, by contract, required to submit more than an hours worth of work each week, and, well, editors don’t permit you to use pretend words like ‘stick-to-it-tiveness’.

WHATEVER.

Anyhoo.  In reviewing my bloggity ways, I have concluded that the abrupt end of my writings in April 2012 coincides nearly to the second immediately following the moment I gave Ancestry.com my American Express number.  Genealogy research.  Ah-ha.  I actually do have stick-to-it-tiveness.

DEAR IMAGINARY EDITOR, I JUST USED THAT WORD THREE TIMES NOW.  I SHALL TRY HARDER.

What I discovered after hours (days, weeks, months and now two years) invested into digging and documentation of my lineage, is that my research overran blogging because it filled an even deeper yearning within me.  I can say confidently and without a trace of dramatics that ancestry completes me.  And by my very existence, I prove out theirs.

LOOK AT ME GO!

And yet, I think there’s even another layer to my passion.  Being at the point statistically speaking where I’m moving beyond my middle-aged years into the last quarter of my life, I can’t yet see what I will face in the future, however long that time will be.  I can’t perceive joys I will experience nor imagine the sorrows and grief I will suffer.  What health issues I will endure or the end result of the ceaseless, damning process of physically aging.  I don’t know what I don’t know.  This reality has plagued me for a very long time.

LIFE SHOULD REALLY HAVE A COHERENT AGENDA, PEOPLE.

In many of my prior blogs I wrestle with faith.  And trust.  And the burdensome ‘not knowing’.  In ancestry research, I know.  There is tangible evidence of a life journey, beginning, middle and end. Not my  life, but those lives that contributed to the making of me.

There is documentation of what must have been joyous events, weddings, births, business and personal successes detailed in the newspaper archives.  And then there are headstones for babies, men with lifelong debilitating injuries suffered in times of war, orphaned children, young destitute widows and old, lonely widowers.

There seems to be no rhyme or reason as to what befell my ancestors in their lifetimes.  Some made it through life relatively unscathed while others suffered mind-numbing losses and hardship. In the big picture, some lines seemed to prosper on a better-than-average basis, generation after generation after generation.   Other lines seemed to continually get kicked in the head more times than seems equitable.  But.  Despite the tragedies and uncertainty, it appears they coped.  Some better than others, however, they coped nonetheless.

WITHOUT KNOWING WHAT WAS NEXT.

I can say with absolute certainty that each life is inherently unique, but the commonality shared by all is the ambiguity of our existence. Through the journey of genealogy research, with each new bit of evidence I record, each moment of delight or agony, I seem to be getting more and more comfortable with the fact of ‘not knowing’. They didn’t and I won’t either.

Who knew that in the recording of their lives, how it would change mine.