Well, here we go. I've been telling myself for the longest time that I should start a blog - to give a booster shot to my desire to write, to communicate with those who I am away from, and to talk. Sometimes I just need to talk. I don't know what form this blog is going to take. I don't even know if there will be a shape to it. No themes, no direction - just me, talking. So, here goes...
I’m pretty sure that writing has saved my life – both on individual occasions as well as on the whole. However, it seems that just as with any saving mechanism, once it is sapped of its use, it is cast aside until it is needed again. If I were an honest woman, I would admit that, although I have thought about sitting down to write on several occasions, I have actively decided not to. I’m not sure why; since writing was my bread and butter for so long, and I even became a spokeswoman for its powers and promises, I feel a bit of a hypocrite as I sit here in a state of penance. I feel like there must be some literary equivalent to 10 “Hail Maries”and 5 “Our Fathers” that would save me from the sins I have committed against writing itself. There have been so many occasions to document that I have simply let pass me by. There have been so many feelings and thoughts that I’ve wanted to share, but I’ve let them sit restless in the files of my brain. If you were to ask me why, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I probably couldn’t even lie my way out of it. I’ve been asked before, and at the time, it was easy to say that I was tired or out of time. It was nothing at all to lay the blame on my job, my Masters degree or my status as a wedding planner. Well, a lot has happened since then and I find myself in a place now where I think I need this more than ever.
Truthfully, it was pure laziness. It was fear. It was a constant thought that if I sat down to write, would I really have anything worthwhile to say? Rubbish! I had plenty to say. I had students who, every day, made me rethink who I was as an individual. Young people who made me question myself and my actions every few minutes. These reflections, which I promised in my academic musings only a short time ago, were the fruits of my labor – or at least they should have been. There was no daily, weekly, bi-monthly journal that I kept to reflect upon my teaching strategies. There was no cathartic admission of truths and fears during my time at EBMI. For all of this I am ashamed. I am ashamed to call myself a writer, and when asked, I have purposely left it out of almost every description of myself for the last several months. People ask what interests me and I feel it would be a ruse, a lie even, to tell them that I’m a writer. To classify myself with people who commit themselves to it, especially when it’s hard. Writing saved my life once upon a time and I have let writing down as if it were something I had the right to lay down and walk away from.
So, let's set the stage then, shall we? Where is it I find myself, you ask? The answer to that is multi-dimensional. First, I find myself married, which is a change that has affected my life in so many ways I can't even begin to comprehend them all. I find myself on the West Coast, far away from my family and friends and everything else I feel comfortable with. I find myself alone in a big place. I find myself at odds with the dreams and goals I have worked my entire life to achieve. I find myself needing people, but constantly without them. I find myself needing this. I find myself. Everyday.
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