The midst of summer brings for me some swelling: "my, this beach trip is fabulous and swell," or "wow, those feet are feeling swollen." As always, our range of emotions fluctuates in truth and fib, ebb and flow, maturity and informality. As I realize and recognize the power of what 8 weeks left are like as a 'single-child' mom, and realize and recognize my gleeful outlook on the 6 or 7 weeks worth of full-time work pre-peanut, these summer swells of which I write are actually no different than any seasonal wave: we are always in flux, and understanding life as such can be as irregular a process as the state in which I propose we are...
Forgive my first paragraph, as it stems from a blank, consciousness stream and not from (as my older sister would have it) any grammatical tact. I think I've struggled this year in writing more (and more eloquently?) due to discrepancies in my certitude and confidence with regards to having anything of value to type out. Of value. What can this even mean?? I know (in the concept of 'knowing' re: knowledge, capacity to be aware of) that any blog-o-spheric tidbit I write offers, if only to myself, the very beauty of getting something off of my chest. But I've found it hard to let go (in the concept of 'letting go' re: release, ease up) of any individual or objective judgments impacting that writing. And for what? For holding myself and mind hostage? "If it's still on your mind, it's still in your heart." And what a powerful statement that can mean. I need to write these things out sometimes. I need not be afraid of the value placed upon it. I simply want to break open my heart and pour some of my love and personal convictions outward. That kind of spirit helps me journey within.
I put pressure on myself not only to write well, but often to write big. Long. Purposefully. What I note about other bloggers and persons in my life that I cherish, who express themselves through art/physical manifestations, are that their contributions are not always so grandiose. My sister just recently proved this point in her prose and in the philosophy of her latest post. I yearn to read her usual quips, and simultaneously get sucked into her lengthier tales of wonder. She, along with many others that I read, stake a deft place in mindful thinking and living, so effortlessly it seems. But, when I re-read the messages within such posts, I find myself, and perhaps the universality of it all: we each live in admiration and fear, in linear and circular patterns.
I don't often revise much of my posts outside of spell-check (which may be pretty obvious!) And as I review my prose for today, I wonder what message it holds for you. I am still wondering what it holds for me! I think my consciousness stream has returned (forgive me, Lissa). Perhaps this post is nothing more than a virtual tide to be washed away among the other posts on my blog. Not "good," not necessarily "bad," but indifferent and full of foam. Not meaningful, but not inconsequential. Not stuck...
...but not steady. Content in having written. And hopeful to write again soon. I also just hope to quiet my mind the next time of any subliminal pressure to do any more than just be.
