I heart my free speech zone

Did you ever go to the Grand Canyon? There is a space with a picnic table that is the Free Speech zone. What you go there to do is beyond me, but that space always fascinated me. I understand what happens at a free speech zone at, say, the 2004 Democratic National Convention. But the Grand Canyon? How did that happen. Who uses it? I just always imagine nudists, self-interpretive dance hour enthusiasts, or chicken-wielding performance artists.

When I first began writing this blog, two months after Lucy was stillborn, I basically copied and pasted the incredibly lengthy birth story I had been working on since I returned home from the hospital. And when I posted the last part of the birth story, I thought, “Now what? That's all I've got.”

I walked into that hospital one kind of mother, and came out a very different kind of mother. I couldn't ignore the experience of having my life so dramatically change in twenty-nine short hours. And I thought, narrowly, that Lucy's death, how it happened, what was said, how I reacted, was the important part of the story. Everything else seemed so much more tragic. Our zombie-like existence flitting in and out of keening and rage, thankfulness and anger. We were beaten and exhausted, hurt by friends, and warmed by strangers all while raising a child. It all seemed way too complicated and messy to sort out in front of complete strangers.

I now realize that the greater part of our story is not how she died, but how we lived.

I'm not celebrating any kind of blogoversary, or anything. Just a random Saturday watching Inter.vention and thinking about this space, especially after my incredibly vulnerable and difficult post about my father. I just feel such an immense gratitude to this First Amendment free zone space that is my blog. I really does help. A lot. I cuss, change my mind, contemplate the existence and lack thereof of meaning in this universe, grieve, get angry, love, cry...Basically I am in my own little cordoned off space, dancing the cabbage patch completely nekkid with poultry in each hand. You know, proverbially.

* I just want to apologize for the weirdness of this post and yesterday's posting. This was written and meant to be saved as a draft, but I published it, and Sam's post was supposed to be published and I saved it as a draft. Either more coffee or more sleep.