I blog, therefore I am read.

Well, something like that.

I am blogging. ~L~ will be thrilled. Now she can read my ramblings as well as hear them directly from me in very long phone calls, many of which involve me eating and attempting to talk at the same time. Won't this be so much nicer than the sound of me masticating my breakfast?

Those of you who are modern sci-fi fans will probably recognize the title of this blog as a play on a line from "Serenity". As much as I love the movie, I wish I could say that my calm is still intact. My calm has been so severely damaged that it seems to have slunk away somewhere to hide and lick its wounds. I am searching for my zen space, my calm, with the idea that perhaps I can find it here and nourish it back to good health. I feel somewhat afloat without it, you see. Or perhaps sucked under is the better phrase. Subsumed beneath the riptide of my grief, the swells of single parenthood, and the choppy waves of panic that sometimes grip me when I'm alone. Either way, it bites the big weinie.

Journaling as therapy is not a new concept, I realize. Feel free to skim right on by those posts that reveal nothing of import to anyone but me. I don't pay you the big bucks, right? If I wanted that, I'd get a therapist, as recommended by my six-year-old son this past week. This is cheaper. Hopefully it will yield some positive results.

And now my pillow calls to me.