another saturday afternoon

Eating coconut rice and bean, brocolli, tempeh - yum

I am aware of how I start censoring myself (in advance) about what I write in here. As ideas come into my head about what I might write, I sometimes think, oh no, I don't want that known, or some people won't read it anymore, what if I'm misunderstood, what is the purpose of this blog anyway..., and the thought doesn't develop. I do this only half aware of it. So I'm working out here what the purpose of my writing is anyhow.

I know that the truth, with all its rough edges, is so much more interesting than the polished version, and more useful to other people. That's where I want to reside. I know that, but I have to remind myself. And I can decide whatever "truth" I want to share. I don't have to spill my guts, either. And of course truth is so slippery. You can slip into so many different storylines without even knowing it.

Who knows what I'll write next.

another short post

I'm going to aim for two a week anyway. My life seems to have sped up in the last month. In a good way - more clients, a new office..

I'm so happy to read all the comments, nice.

I'm just thinking about k & c's reply (I don't know whether K or C, sounds like K) - about whether wolves care if anyone hears them howl (related to whether anyone reads one's writing, I assume) - and at first I thought, well, it's great just to howl, I guess, but - isn't that the whole reason they howl - to communicate with each other? I don't know. I feel like I can find my freest voice when I imagine myself as part of a whole, that my words may land somewhere, but not directing myself towards any particular people. Imagining particular people, I feel somewhat frozen by how they in particular will hear it; imagining nobody, I don't feel motivated enough. ???

Anyway, this short post is turning into a long one, and I better go.

Saturday

I'll run out of days to name my posts by soon. Ted and I are sitting on the couch together reading, in the middle of the day, which doesn't happen (ever). Alannah (12 years old) is here playing with Noam, she's been here since 10:30, Maeve's asleep, and it's heaven. Ending in ten minutes unfortunately.

I don't want to make this too much of a journal - happenings, but also more general writing. That takes more time, though, which I don't have, so I've been stuck a bit in making posts. I'll have to write short posts a lot of the time.

So here are a couple things:

Happiness feels to me like lightness, beauty sparking at various points in the air.

Sitting on the ground makes us more human, more the kind of human I want around me and to be. We listened to Indian musicians last night sitting on the ground.

Wednesday

Today is my day home with Maeve. She is such a pleasure to spend time with - . Especially since I only look after her a full day once a week. She is sitting on my lap right now - and now I have to go...

Today

Today I met with a client, talked to another, had lunch with Ted and hung out on the couch in his office for the afternoon doing reading for school. Felt how much more time we would need to spend together to get re-acquainted since having the kids. I'm going to start going there every Friday. Bought a book for Christine I hope we can both read and discuss one day. Author I really love. The atmosphere of her first book still remains in my memory. I can't say who she is in case Christine reads this before I give it to her! I just sent out the address to this blog to 20 people, so now I feel a certain pressure to make it interesting. But I hope I shake that off and forget, because I won't write very well, and because not many people will likely read it anyway - they'd have to find something that catches them, something strongly similar in our lives or interests. Or people who are close enough to me to want to read what I write (Ted? Christine? Farah? Anyone else?) I feel both completely fine if this doesn't ever get read and insecure. Like two different personalities, each one so distinct. If nothing else, starting this blog has made me realize that writing is a way to organize myself, and that it feels so meaningful - to say how things are - fulfills something that is difficult to describe. Writing makes experience meaningful because it reminds us we are aware, others are aware, feeling the events of life. It assures me of the depth of experience, along with the mundaneness of life.

Will anyone ever read my posts??

Reality has set in. Noone may ever read my posts. Except Ted. Is it enough to write for one person? It's a little less energizing to write when you think noone may ever read it. But I guess all writers write this way. So here goes. Hmmmm.. The creative flow I was experiencing has dipped. I think I'll start a new post.

Creating a blog - why do it

I was thinking about why I was so excited to start this blog. Part of it is artistic, part psychological. The artistic is the chance to create something beautiful - well maybe it's mostly psychological - I want to be able to create a piece of work - that hopefully has some aesthetic appeal - that lets me see what really is most important in my life right now. If I'm making a statement about something for someone else(s), then I want it to be accurate, so I have to feel what that is. That's beautiful to me. Also I find the arrangement of words and ideas, together with design, aesthetically and spiritually compelling. Also I have an insatiable compulsion to communicate. That's all.

Checking In

I just learned what a blog is tonight. Don't hold that against me. I'm going to try it out for a while and see if it sticks.