I am writing a blog.
For me, and for you—whoever you are.
I’ve begun many blogs. Some lasted months, most days. They were about motherhood and fitness and food and books and poems. I’m a scattered, messy soul. I like a lot of things.
I am a writer, a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a friend. I cook, & collect cookbooks (and health books, and self-improvement books, and poetry books, and fairy tale books, and spiritual books, and every other kind of book). I read literary novels & shampoo bottles alike. Journaling has saved my life since age 9. I haven’t owned a bathtub for nine years, and bathtubs are my favorite. I’m a Pisces sun, Gemini moon, Virgo rising, 8 life path, 3 attitude. Numerology is my party trick. Take me to a concert or a festival. People fascinate me. Animals fascinate me more. The tests tell me I’m INFJ. Music is my lifeblood. My dream is to live in a treehouse.
I’ve tinkered with countless blog themes and designs. Right now, I am typing these words into a document. I haven’t even found a real home for them. For the first time, I’m not worried about it. The words come first, then the home. The words come first, then they land where they’re meant to. The words come first, then someone comes along who needs to read them. Then there are more words; the spirit expands. We are in communion.
Our lives are our best poems. They’re incongruent. We style them, then restyle them. The words are unruly, the line breaks too long or short. We say things we regret. We live out our longings. We hide behind nice metaphors. Occasionally we hit a stride or say something in a pretty way, and then we screw it up again. The screw-ups become new desires, new laments, new things to reach for. And somewhere in the tangle is the truth, bright and perfect.