Thursday, August 12, 2010


I remember the days when the field was fresh. On those days I could run here and bury my face in the blossoms, like Myra, angsty and tortured and passionate and alive.

Now I find I avoid the solace that brings. When I write, really write the way I'd like, I regress to a state of in which I am perpetually seventeen. Sometimes, that's charming. But usually it's draining or even cloying, and if I don't leave the field in tears, I'm sure my readers do. And they're not tears brought on by deep emotion, unless you consider annoyance deep.

Today I'm feeling seventeen and forty-something, which means I'm hormonal and weepy and passionate, but not quite sure about what. I'm also angry, but I'm not sure about why, either. I'm somewhat concerned that I might actually click the orange box and publish this post when I'm finished throwing words up here. And then all this nonsense will be cast out into the world where others can scoff at it and discover what I already know - it's really all vanity, and nothing more than that.

I'd like to start blogging here again, but I'm not sure there's a place for this. Now that I'm a Professional Communicator, with a Title and an Office and a paycheck that comes every other Thursday, I spend my days doing Real Work and writing about Important Topics. I think I'm pretty good at that, and I have a very sweet thing going. But there's a part of me that misses this...this flowery heart-revealing stuff that would make Certain Persons in my life (and probably most who happen upon this post)gag.

Enough. Until I can purchase one of those little diaries with a key, I have this place and no other. It's still my field, and if I want to throw daisies and write about rainbows and butterflies, that's my choice. If I want to be a pretend poet, or obsess about death, or marvel at God's grace, or just complain about my lot in life, or my husband, or my dog, this is the place I intend to do it.

I'm not going to tiptoe through the tulips; that's just not my style. Sometimes the pretty flowers are going to get all smashed up and messy. Sometimes I'm going to fashion odd bouquets, like the kind little boys bring to their overwhelmed mothers. Sometimes I'm just going to shove a bunch of dandelions in your face. I might weed the plot occasionally, but mostly I'm just going to hang out and see if I can still catch the fragrance wafting through the air.

And if you can bear it, you're welcome to join me.


Kate Wicker @ Momopoly said...

I can more than bear it. I've missed your honest, beautiful writing. :-)

Sarah Reinhard said...

Ah, good to have you back.

I wanted to send you a long, chatty email in response to a question I did NOT take the chance to answer during the blogging panel, the one you asked about whether there's a place for WRITING in the blogosphere.

I mean, it would have been SLIGHTLY out of place for me to jump up and down and yell YESYESYESYESYES, especially since I wasn't wearing my cowboy hat and they were recording things.

So. Good for you. Keep writing. :)

Lisa said...

I'm so glad to see that the CNMC inspired you to return to personal blogging. While talking you really seemed to miss it. I am so glad to have met you and I can't wait to read your postings!

Steve Finnell said...

you are invited to follow my blog