Firstly, I think your unintentional post is lovely, Meghan. I almost hesitate to follow it, because it's so honest and ... oh, I hate to use the word "profound" -- what does that even mean? -- so I'll just call it truthful. For the record, I think that worrying about writing, my writing, being profound is one of the biggest obstacles that stands between me and putting anything on paper. I always worry about writing something profound.
When I was in sixth grade, I remember hearing my teacher, Mrs. Bass, praising my brother Tanner's writing (Tanner had the same teacher a couple years previous), commenting that he wrote some "deep" essays, or something like that, I can't remember what adjective she used. Anyhow, I thought that I should be writing deep things, if my brother was, so for the next writing assignment, I wrote this paragraph about a old man, except I think it was just his head, floating in dark space, and he had a really long beard, and his beard was tangled and there was a key stuck in the tangles, I think. He may have been sad. It was completely meaningless.
Well, I don't have a whole lot to say. I have really enjoyed reading everyone's posts on here. Reading the writing of friends inspires me to write more than anything else. Outside of my journal and my work, these few paragraphs are possibly the most writing I have done in months and months. There's a good chance that it's the only extra-curricular writing I will do for a few more months. I miss you all, and I hope you are all doing well as you grade finals and create finals, carve out your prospective and nascent motherhoods, and work through the various tangled, key-filled beards of your winters.