I really enjoy reading blogs. There is so much wisdom and vitality to be discovered in the thoughts and stories of others, and I feel so privileged to call a handful of bloggers trusted and kindred spirits. The woman I am today, the journey that has unfolded since I first got serious about my blog more than two years ago, has been moulded and massaged by the experiences I’ve read about and shared in this online world. I’ve cried and laughed because of your honesty. I share your stories with my husband and speak of so many of you as if you were here, in real life, instead of hundreds of miles away. I’ve been humbled by your willingness to share and inspired by the perseverance and love that exists in this online world. Often I’m reminded that without our blogs we may never have found one another and created a community of womanhood and friendship.
This place, my own slice of this interconnected matrix, has evolved and matured on its own, so much so that, in many ways, it has developed a life of its own. It has been my quiet place when I needed it, a shelter and a sounding board. Until recently I was never at a loss for reasons to come here. The words they flowed and ignited and I just allowed myself to be enfolded into their embrace. It was comfortable. It always felt right, and good.
These days, days like today when I am surrounded by quiet and opportunity, when I feel the urge to sit and write— it doesn’t come. I find it very disquieting. The words no longer tumble and fall. The urgency to share fades, even though the desire still festers.
I feel like I’ve said so much, and now I’m just on repeat. And the repeat is good for me, but I’m not so sure it’s so good for this place or for you. Because let’s face it, a blog is for the readers otherwise I’d write in a notebook.
What’s unusual is that I’m not panicked about it. Yes it’s uncomfortable and vaguely worrisome, because I’ve been so incredibly connected to my blog and to those of others, but I feel like this is just a pause.
Or maybe not. I don’t know.
I’ve been mustering enough to write a post a week. Every once in a while I feel a fire in my belly, a need to spill something out. And then I do. But that flame flickers far less frequently. I remind myself often that this was only ever about having an outlet and that because of that I should use only when needed. That it’s okay to release myself from my own expectations, to let this nonsense go.
But I can’t because it matters to me. I want to write. I want to practice. I want to explore my thoughts and describe them with words. I was to share and be vulnerable and make a difference. And this is the place I believe I am meant to be doing it.
So how to charge it up again? How to feed the fire and keep it going. Must I reinvent myself? Or is what I’ve been doing here the right thing? Is this what I should be doing? That, my friends, is what’s on my mind.