Today marks the 1000 Post mark for this little joke of a project I started more than four years ago. Never intending to start a blog, actually unsure of what a blog even was, I wanted to reply to something someone said somewhere on the internet (imagine disagreeing with someone, somewhere, on the internet! My naivety was so cute!). Anyway, I didn’t like what she said. So I wrote her a letter. And then I couldn’t post it on her website, because she wouldn’t allow me to. So I had to start my own.
Even the name was picked spur-of-the-moment. I clicked on Blogger, and you had to put in a name, so since my hair was wild and curly that day and I felt like a weed, I picked a dandelion. That’s it. That’s all there was to it. And I posted my letter. It’s still there, and the woman it was meant for eventually did read it and comment. A very satisfying experience. But the Genie was out of the bottle.
Once I had an outlet to write, I found immense satisfaction putting my thoughts into cogent form. For most of my life, I had felt bombarded by ideas and images and words, and they whirled around in my disquieted mind like a maelstrom- I couldn’t talk about my point-of-view to someone, because my windy mind was so influenced by others that I couldn’t sort out me from them. But when I wrote… Oh, when I wrote… the storm quieted. The waters stilled. The skies cleared, and I could figure out who I was again. It was 10,000 years of solitude. It was peace in my soul. It was a room of my own. It was a clean well-lighted place. It was an unforeseen gift- one I had no idea I was missing.
And now because of this gift, I have a chronicle of my children’s lives that I hope someday they will cherish. This blog pre-dates even finding out I was pregnant with Abby, and it chronicles much of my sons’ lives as well. I would treasure a diary of my mother or grandmother when they had young children. Maybe my kids will too. Probably not, because I get the feeling that’s just not how it works. But still, a mama can hope.
Along the way I have celebrated great happiness, and shared personal sorrows, too. I try always to be honest and candid, while still walking the line balancing the private lives of my family and loved ones with what I chose to publicly share. It’s a line I’ve messed with a few times, but I think I finally have a good sense of where it is and how to toe-up.
The last couple years, the sorrows have tipped the scales too much, at least if anyone is asking me. It’s not done yet- but I know the wheel never stops spinning, and that the depth of my sorrow is also the wellspring of my understanding and happiness. I borrowed that from Kahlil Gibran. I’m nowhere near as cool as he is.
Now I find myself on a new path- one I was never anticipating walking. And yet, here I am. People keep telling me they think I am so strong. It makes me laugh. Well, what else am I going to do? I briefly considered hiding in the closet with a year’s supply of chocolate chips and a jug of egg-nog, but that wouldn’t solve anything, and would cause some bloating problems I’m better off without.
So instead, I get up. And I get up again. And again if I have to. And then I write about it.
I don’t know what the future holds- and isn’t that marvelous? What a great adventure. I do know writing is now woven into the tapestry that is me. It’s in the fold of my arm, the set of my hip, the curve of my neck, the glint in my eye- and with apologies to Maya Angelou, the joy in my feet and the palm of my hand.
Thank you for being a part of my life.
(If I were cool enough, and my computer wasn’t utterly trashed and gimpy, I totally would have this song playing for this post.)