I realise it may be surprising that I’m blogging again. Like, who even remembers blogging?
Why did we spend our evenings, huddled over our laptops, spilling our guts on the big ole Internet?
Anyway, as it turns out…this is my home. My little plot of land on the big worldwidebloodyweb, where I get to truly say – this one’s mine. I have that feeling about my daughter, my dogs, my people, my work, and my words.
I will always protect, defend, and stand by them.
(I cannot wait for that to be misinterpreted. I love my family, friends, and pets, and I will protect them by whatever means necessary. I write words and I stand by them. Is that clear enough for you? I hope the sheer number of 8 words in one sentence is not…”overwhelming” for you. Do you have any questions? Oh good. Go away then… Dear Internet, we’ll talk about this part of it one day).
Let’s move on.
Over time, as life would have it (she says…diplomatically…) I stopped writing for myself. The ability to express myself – and not just on behalf of someone or something else, as I do professionally – had evaporated.
In this time of returning home to myself, I remembered this place. My long forgotten allotment.
I pulled out the weeds (except the dandelions, because my mother can use those…), raked up the leaves, sorted out the flower beds, and – short story long –
I’m back bitches.
Writing is, to me, a walk on the ocean. Just like the song says.
In reality, she is huddled over her laptop, the ashtray is full (it’s family tradition), the pets are snoozing near the writer, and it’s quiet.
In my mind, it’s a walk on the ocean. Beautiful. Scenic. The waves feel like mere ripples between my feet. There is a familar rhythm to it all. Then…
Suddenly, I’ve dipped into a whirlpool of words, lost as the characters fly around and keyboard clacks away.
When I finally realise I’m in the whirlpool, I look up, and I’m at the end of the sentence, the page, the thought.
I emerge from the whirlpool shook up, but satisfied.
And I can continue to walk on the ocean again, as I trundle back to the coastline, onto the sand, and then finally traverse the land that is reality, once again.
What I’m really trying to say is…
I thought the things we don’t talk about had robbed my ability to descend into the whirlpool. My fingers felt numb from holding them back. My eyes were not accustomed to the light across the waves anymore. I stayed far away from the sand, the beach, the water, the sky.
I stayed far too far away from the stars in the sky, even.
The very ones I used to lay on the lawn with my dad with in my childhood.
He’d laugh, lie on his back on our carefully nurtured lawn (no, I don’t know how he found the time), hands across his belly, and he’d point up at the constellations, yelling out their names.
I, a small child, would lie beside him, staring right up at that gorgeous sky. Looking into those stars, peering into the abyss of eternity.
A few evenings ago, I lay down on the ground outside, as the descent of an autumn evening began. I started to see the stars appear, I rolled my eyes around in search of an ethereal sparkle, and every now and then, I’d find one.
I lay down on the ground and began again. I started to see the stars again.
Here I am, now, making my way back to the beach again. I’m walking curiously toward the sand now and then, and sometimes, I let myself take that walk on the ocean for a little bit. Heck, I’ve survived a few word whirlpools now too, emerging with my eyes glistening, free and full of the power of life.
The sun-dappled waves behind me, the comfort of the ripples beneath my feet.
I’m not afraid anymore. Not again. Never again.
As I said…
I’m back, bitches.
*insert the “I LIVED, BITCH” meme here. I’m just typing that because I’m far too lazy to go look for it, and I also need to top up with another cup of tea.
Peace, peas, or whatever we called it this week.