This is the blog I’ve wanted to write. I’ve written training blogs, and coaching blogs because I thought I had to write about what I thought people wanted to read. See all the thinking going on? Turns out that writing what I thought other people wanted to read led to two things; off topic blog posts, and eventually, not writing at all. I was lost.
What will I write about now?
I’m a storyteller, so I’m going to tell stories. I have journaled for 28 years. I had journals that went back further, but I burnt those pages a long time ago. I feel like I’ve lost those years, like I burnt the memories along with words. I think this is one of the only things I look back on in my life and feel true regret over, because burning them wasn’t my idea, it was my mother’s.
I’m surprised that I ever wrote again, so deep was the betrayal of finding her standing in my room, the middle drawer of my dresser hanging open, and the look of horror on her face at reading what I had written. I wish I could remember the words that were so terrible to her, and the me that must have been so dark in her eyes that all she could think to say was…burn these so no one ever reads them again…
The same thing happened to me in Sunday school. I loved Sunday school, the ritual, the beauty of ceremony, praying for our food. It all ended when I was 4. One day I was told I was no longer welcome. They said I asked too many questions. I would give a lot to know what I asked.
Never underestimate the power of words. Written or spoken, it seems, I have a way with them :-)
Kind of exciting, hmm?
What will I write about now?
I’m a storyteller, so I’m going to tell stories. I have journaled for 28 years. I had journals that went back further, but I burnt those pages a long time ago. I feel like I’ve lost those years, like I burnt the memories along with words. I think this is one of the only things I look back on in my life and feel true regret over, because burning them wasn’t my idea, it was my mother’s.
I’m surprised that I ever wrote again, so deep was the betrayal of finding her standing in my room, the middle drawer of my dresser hanging open, and the look of horror on her face at reading what I had written. I wish I could remember the words that were so terrible to her, and the me that must have been so dark in her eyes that all she could think to say was…burn these so no one ever reads them again…
The same thing happened to me in Sunday school. I loved Sunday school, the ritual, the beauty of ceremony, praying for our food. It all ended when I was 4. One day I was told I was no longer welcome. They said I asked too many questions. I would give a lot to know what I asked.
Never underestimate the power of words. Written or spoken, it seems, I have a way with them :-)
Kind of exciting, hmm?
