I’ve always had this sense that my writing is uninteresting or horribly composed. I’m not sure which is worse–except maybe both. So when I write, it’s more of my own journaling, internal monologues, poetry, observations, and quickly articulated musings after the moment. I also write letters to those who have passed away and pen pals living in crowded isolation. Often, I write letters I’ll never send as a form of emotional release, regardless of the type or magnitude of my feelings; experiences I’m unable to verbalise just flow into tangibility.
When I do share them with people, that too has been a consistently good experience. Those who harbour negativity will continue to do so, but sometimes they’re inflamed for some reason that I’ll never know. People who don’t know me have been kind in their commentary. Those who love and care about me give me advice or ask questions, wondering what the ‘real’ inspiration was and why. They always know there’s something more below the surface.
So, why the hesitation? There’s no lack of material. No lack of positive potential. But, when it comes to blogging or any other material for an undefined audience, I stop short of the publication line. That is, until someone else gives me a good shove, and *presto* it is done. Someone close with me would edit and format my work, which also ensured that that particular head dump would be turned into a properly published swan. Not only did she write more eloquently than I ever could, she usually knew what I was attempting to convey without needing to ask me anything.
When she passed away, I didn’t know what, if anything, I’d be doing with this blog; especially since I don’t post that often. I’ve heard a lot of blah blah about ‘she would have wanted you to continue’, ‘but you do so well anyway’, and similar yada yada, which I feel is unnecessary and inappropriate.
Bereavement is such a layered complexity. There are many concepts to consider. What part of the journey still remains? Which trails were lost in the emotional storm, and which course will take me in the right direction? These, and other questions arise with such intense concurrency that it’s impossible to differentiate between each train of thought. Ironically, the most necessary component required to even have a chance of making sense of death is time.
So, now I’m back to clearing up a point of hesitation. Making a leap is not something unknown to me. Leaps have all had their many forms. Before I was old enough to learn how to hold a pen, I moved from everything I knew into the house of two strangers I knew nothing about. Very peculiar to call this concept “adoption” since there was no real acceptance. Other leaps have been in quieter acts such as a held hand during another’s last breath, acclimating to new languages, unexpectedly packed duffel bags, a kick off of a high dive… Which leads me to believe that I can do this, too.
PS: So much love and thanks to Star Brady for helping me through this entry as well as many others who are always rooting for me. Your love and kindness is appreciated more than I could ever articulate. Thank you.