I’m not quite sure what I was thinking when I started writing here.
I told no one, showed no one and yet it was so important for me to write, the posts kept me going on days when not much else could. The fact that someone, anyone was reading helped me to feel heard. The thought of needing to explain made me strive to understand the storms raging through me. I had a reason to look in and out, to study the sky and wonder why the change came.
I thought I would be done in a week or two, that I would’ve moved on. In many ways I have; I’ve travelled thousands of miles, but I still want to write.
Inside my days, ideas clump like clouds that need permission to weep. The words rise and fall on a breath. This searching and seeking has grown through me, become me, so a beginning or end is obsolete.
It sometimes bothers me that I always write about the same things, my broken record aching heart. I feel that I should have something new to say.
Really all of these long winded scribbles could be shrunk down to just a few words – life, death, love, loss, up, down – and there are no new thoughts in those old old stories.
Yet just as I am always going back, I am also going forward. I see these posts as points to help me navigate the circles I spin through. They mark my journey through the whirlpool. I’m pulled deeper into myself even as I see the questions in my heart broaden and beckon others to ask. It consumes but does not destroy and the circle is even older than these stories.
What I write is so personal, so mine and yet at the same time it belongs to everyone. All come here in time. All one day wonder. That thought helps me tolerate the turns and cycles with more patience and more humility. I feel like I am charting the way to a promised place, a fuller kind of life and I guess that justifies a little repetition!
By reading you have helped me to a tiny creation. Your comments have made me bold about being bare, about showing what pulses and thrums. No one screamed or shrieked when I let the tears flow and that helped me speak. Writing has taught me to be naked.
As time passed I have grown more comfortable in my skin, grown braver about narrowing the gap between this world, here, and that. Honesty has seeped into my out-there day and it is better for it. Being able to be more real gave me space to stretch, to grow and to reach back into myself.
I’m okay about being caught in the act of a question.