Steamshovel mama

It's dawning on me that I don't really have much of a calling as a blogger. Too many years of writing on demand have made robbed writing of its pleasure for me. When I was younger, and had little of value to say, I used to walk home from school rubbing random words together in my head until they were burnished like brass. They made their own serendipitous sense. Now writing is purely utilitarian, a dump truck, baby, to unload my head.

I've gotten down off my high horse regarding the decision to encourage restraint. It is in the way of good leadership not to leave your sheep back on the other side of the creek--or crick, as they say where I come from. Sooner or later I get off my high horse about most things. But I fired my ISP yesterday after eight different customer service representatives took an hour and a half (88 minutes of which I spent on hold) to answer a simple question. It may be time for me to meditatively consider a more limited place for teh Internets in this simple life. I'll keep my blog spot here for a while, not least because it gives me an identity to comment on other people's blogs, whom I've come to rely on as part of my community. And who knows? I may eventually be back with some metal polish and a soft cloth, buffing up those words at a later date.