For those of you paying attention, it’s been quite a while since I’ve blogged. I had some soul searching to do and in the mean time the ideas and posts created quite a bottle neck situation that left me feeling stuck and broken in some ways. The urge to write and to post here has been a strong current tossing this tiny boat of mine around, but a firm, solid anchor has kept me pinned in one space with only enough slack to knock me around, but not really allow me to move.
I’m inspired every day to write something, to contribute my slant on the collective consciousness that exists in this massive (but in so many ways tiny) space that we call the internet. And I feel pulled to document this journey I’m on growing as a parent and a writer; a journey that in some moments feels as new as it does familiar.
I was particularly inspired by this post which I stumbled on through a link from a link from a link (you know how it goes). I’ve always struggled with what to share in public and, more specifically, under the guise of anonymity that the internet provides. Couple this with my desires to publish some of my work and the potential that at some point I might link my real name/work to this blog and things get even more convoluted in my little head.
I’ve thought a lot about what blogging means to me and what I want it to mean to the people who choose to read it. For most of my life, writing has been the place where I work out all the messy stuff; a dumping ground, if you will, for the toxic waste that sometimes overtakes my life. When it came to blogging, I’ve often just wrote what I needed to with nary a thought to who might be reading. Things shifted and I had to abandon ship of an old blog when one of my readers became more of a stalker due to some interpersonal, real life stuff that happened between us. I realized what is at risk by being open and vulnerable and I question just how open and vulnerable I need or want to be going forward.
Where does all of this leave me? It leaves me feeling like I’m sitting at my kitchen table trying to plan every intimate detail of some epic trip right down to each grain of sand I will walk upon and foresee every single potential speed bump or pothole along the way. I’m surrounded by huge piles of maps and stacks of paper posing as perpetually imperfect drafts of lengthy itinerary. And if I just keep sitting here being driven by this debhilitating need to ‘get it right’ the reality is that I’m never going to go anywhere.
So here goes. I’m going to get it wrong, but I must trust that throughout the process I will also get it right and that in the end, everything in my life will happen just the way it’s supposed to.