It seems that every few months I get on here and write a post about how I’m aching to return to my writing roots. And then I disappear.
I’ve been thinking a lot about why it’s been so difficult for me to keep up with the blog this past year or so. And partly, the answer is logistical — I’m tired, I have a lot of other projects in the works, my eyes hurt from too much time spent on the computer, and there are simply not enough hours in the day. But there’s a bigger part that I’ve been attempting to avoid. The part where I don’t know that I want to share my personal musings with the world anymore. The part where I haven’t been feeling as joyful as I was just a few short years ago. And it’s been a bit of a struggle. And my stories have felt intensely personal. And despite all the work I’ve done to be more open, I still live a rather guarded life, which few actually enter in a meaningful way.
But the writing is such an outlet for me. The sharing. The stories. It’s been a beautiful record of my life. If I remember correctly, I started this blog around 2009. So much has been recorded in that time. Then, a few years ago, I removed many of the personal stories. I’m a teacher. My students had stumbled upon my blog. Several started following along. I somehow felt the compulsion to pull back. It’s funny because the response from my students was quite heartfelt — those that read entries were sweet and supportive, and they really enjoyed it. I don’t know why I felt I had to remove pieces. I think I should have left them. But I didn’t. I still have the file of old entries. Perhaps I will find a way to reload them to the site (one of these days when I actually have a bit of free time).
Long story short, I have realized I love this website and blog as it was originally meant to be — a personal collection of my life, hodgepodged and pieced together as it is. I have no plans to post any of these writings to social media. I have no plans to make a plan for how often I will write or what I will write about. This blog isn’t for a specific audience. This blog is for me. It was always meant to be that way.
If you stumble upon my writing and something resonates with you, I welcome emails and hellos. I welcome friend requests on FB from kindred souls. I’ve chosen not to open comments because I don’t want to think about them. I don’t want the possibility of comments to stop me from writing what strikes me in the moment. If I know you personally, I hope you understand that I don’t really want to talk about my writing. Writing is therapeutic to me. It’s my outlet. And, yes, I choose to do it in a rather public manner. I can’t really explain that because I’ve tried writing in journals, and I quite hate it. It’s like — I want to know that someone is reading my words; I want to know that I’m not writing to an abyss of empty pages in a book no one will read.
So there it is. A return to the written word. A return to the therapy of my past that I loved ever so much. 2015 is almost here, and I plan to make it a year full of self-care rituals. A year seeking peace and contentment. A year that includes writing. And putting that thought to paper kind of makes my heart smile right now. I think this is a good thing. I think this is a very good thing.