If you know me, and I mean truly know me, then you will know that I am a woman of very few words. When I have something to say it usually has considerable weight and meaning. I don’t engage comfortably in small talk. It’s hard for me to exchange trivial pieces of information with you about the weather, what I might be wearing to the party, or how my mother may have known your brother’s ex-girlfriend from high school. I can’t gossip about people (in fact I hate it), and I can’t easily align myself with people who do. There’s a person behind that piece of gossip. She’s filled with the scented bloom of a full-bodied life history, and to reduce her down to a cocktail party headline takes the beauty out of knowing her. You see, I’m more inclined to know the woman and the journey behind her story, for it is in the weaknesses and strengths of humanity in which we share a common thread, and I suppose I’ve always been looking for meaning and connection that way.
I have been journaling my memoirs for as long as I can recall. It is my life story. It’s no different than yours perhaps, but writing about it has been a beautiful life gift that I have given myself, to have the ability to go back and recall, to smile and reflect about a particular moment in time. It is my living, breathing selfie of language. The few who have been privy to see my thoughts on paper have told me that I have a knack for writing, that it may inspire others and that I should dare greatly and share it.
There is nothing that I find comfortable about publishing a blog. It is exposing. It feels raw and risky, and it leaves me open to judgement and to criticism. But it also starts a path in motion for connection and maybe that’s why I’m doing it. So to those of you who will, judge if you may, but rest assured that you probably weren’t the kind of person I would be looking to connect with anyway.
Welcome To My Story.