Aren't we all a little broken?

I've been writing again - mostly politics and Oz thoughts. After I finished my most recent post this morning, I was still deep in thought about the stories I told about my Oz collection and it took me somewhere different. I have always been introspective - often accused of thinking too much, worrying too much. I've had therapy about things that cause me anxiety, things I've shared in this blog before. I realized today, as I wrote about broken figurines, and the tears I shed over them, even as I glued them back together to try to salvage - something - anything, that this is more about life than it is about Auntie Em's lost head, or a shattered winged monkey. This is about knowing we can't control things, and that is not always easy to accept. As I wrote about turning my room into an Oz room after my divorce, I realized it was not about showing off the Oz collection, but about taking a space for myself, creating a place I could call all my own. It's always been about being able to manage and keep things close. When I write about my mom, my grandma, aunts, uncles, children and grandchildren, it is about keeping them near - even after they're gone. It's about trying to control the feelings of loss, as they move far away and I get older. Maybe this is all I have to say about this right now.