Posts Tagged ‘self’

When I finish writing what I’m going to write here and hit the “publish” button on the side of the page, this will be my two hundred and eighty second post on this blog.

Two hundred and eighty two.


I know it’s usually the big anniversaries that are celebrated.  Like two hundred or three hundred or even two hundred and fifty but today, this time, I decided I need to celebrate two hundred and eighty two.

Because that’s an accomplishment for me and I’m tired of celebrating when other people or the calendar or social convention tells me that I should.  Usually by the time I actually arrive at the “approved day of celebration” I don’t feel like celebrating at all.  It’s like I wish I could just wake up one morning and decide that day is going to be my birthday.  Just decide on the spur of the moment that I want to spend that day celebrating me and eating cake and doing what I want to do, because I want to, not because the calendar tells me that I can.

And with that in mind, today I have decided to celebrate this little place I created and the blood, sweat and tears that have kept it going.  Well, to be honest, there hasn’t been a whole lot of blood and sweat involved but the tears, oh there have been tears.

Some people in my life know about this blog but there are also some who don’t.  There are people who know me but have no idea about this place or what is here or even that I write at all.  That’s the way I like it.  Some might say that I’m hiding; that it’s not right to keep part of who I am tucked but for me, it allows this place to be the more authentic me.  I don’t have to edit and censor.  I don’t have to define to people what I do here, or why I wrote what I wrote, or to justify or explain myself.  This is the place I come where I don’t have to do any of those things. Keeping a little part of me hidden actually allows me to be more open.

When people find out that I have a blog the first question is usually “what is it about?”  I always find it a difficult question to answer because, truthfully, the answer would be that this place is about me.  And maybe I just need to stop apologizing for that.  Maybe I should stop thinking it’s selfish of me to have something in my life that’s just for me.  Because it is.  This place is about me and the things that I think and feel and struggle with and like and love and hate and question and contemplate and all of that makes up who I am.   I write here as a record for me to look back on in those times when I lose sight of all the people I have been along the way.

And so I’m going to take a moment to pat myself on the back for two hundred and eighty two.  Not all of them have been brilliant, or intelligent or even remotely articulate but this place represents me, and I’m definitely not always any of those things either. But it is about me, for better or worse and, I have discovered, it has also become about the people who join me here.  Those of you who have been here since the beginning and who have become an amazing source of support for me, and those who have found the Palace along the way and who have pulled up a chair and stayed.  I hope you’ve enjoyed your time here so far because I’ve certainly enjoyed having you here.

Happy two hundred and eighty two.  I’m looking forward to seeing what comes next.

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the words

The words come, they flow so quickly and effortlessly that I don’t even think about it. I don’t question where they came from or wonder what to do with them. They are the words; they are my words, and I trust that they will be there.

Until they stop.

I didn’t even realize they were gone right away. Days went by and I realized I had not written anything. I had a feeling in the back of my mind like I had forgotten something; like I left my purse somewhere or forgot to pay the cable bill.

I ran through the ongoing list in my head, running down the page, checking things off. Everything was as it should be. Except something was still missing.

The words.

I don’t know where they go when they go. It’s almost like I’m allotted so many words and when I use them up, they’re gone. I have to sit and wait for the next installment. And until then, my mind goes quiet.

I want to answer an email from a friend but I can’t get past the first sentence. I don’t want to write. I want to stare out the window, I want to read a book, I want to sit and listen to the quiet in my head.

I don’t want to talk. I have nothing to say; the words bore me. The sound of my voice makes me sigh. I just want the quiet.

It used to scare me. I used to wonder who I would be without the words, but now I know. I am the same; it’s still me. And the words will come.

I will walk down the street and see the first orange leaf of Fall and the words will come.

I will hear a story that makes me laugh and I will want to share it. I will want to tell everyone I know and make them laugh too.

I will once again see the small things and feel them light me up inside, and the words will come.

I am no longer afraid. I believe they will come; I know they will.

And when they do, I will be here waiting.

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