Struck a chord

This past Friday I decided I might actually enjoy bookkeeping. It’s actually quite helpful in sparking up memories, you know. For example: I came across an expense from August of 2015 for a theme I purchased for the new blog I planned to use for writing — it took me back to when we lived above our food bar, which is when I purchased the theme, in a loft with very little sunlight, and hallways that always smelled of a Glade candle, thanks to those awful plug-in devices.

I started a blog a while back — it was called Eat. Think. Nourish — but, I never fell into a comfortable stride with it. It didn’t feel satisfying. I felt like I was writing, writing, writing, for anyone other than myself, and eventually, I felt drained. So I let go of Eat. Think. Nourish and started a new blog, with plans to find my voice again; this time, writing for no one other than myself.

Now, here we are, eight months later, and the act still(!) terrifies me. Something about committing to publishing my words on the World Wide Web blocks me from freely and accurately expressing myself. (It suddenly strikes her that she just might take herself too seriously, and, perhaps, her writing not serious enough.)

Either way, here I am, writing, writing, writing.

I think the struggle here stems from the fact that I don’t have a strong foothold in what I’m actually doing here, in this space. It’s all la, la, laaaaa, type, type, type, but for what, aside from feeling anxious when I don’t? Plus, and probably most importantly, there’s the the whole fear thing and the stories I weave from it.

On Saturday, while making a version of this chicken stew, I turned this TED Radio Hour episode and, of course, its content felt very relevant considering all this talk I’ve been doing about fear lately. I found myself shaking my head a lot, and even listened to a few snippets again on Sunday morning so I could jot some of the ideas down and commit them to memory. I really liked what novelist Karen Thompson Walker had to say on the subject of fear and will be giving more thought going forward to the fears actually worth listening to.

The truth is, with the exception of being in the company of in my inner-most circle, I’m not terribly good at fully or accurately expressing myself. It’s the same whether I’m sitting behind a computer, sitting across from you, or on the other line; my words likely aren’t coming out right because of this intense perceived fear of judgment that dates back, I can only assume, to my middle-school days, when intense judgment raged in most kids my age.

That’s neither here nor there. So, what am I doing here? What’s my mission statement, so to speak?

I’m writing to satisfy a calling to do it. A calling I can recall having while sitting on my white-and-pink floral bedspread, in my safe haven of a room in our house on Meadow Ridge Circle; and again while sitting on the white, wooden window seat in my hunter-green room on Shadow View Court. The room with a west-facing window that had white, wooden blinds, and looked out to the neighborhood in which my soccer trainer lived. It just doesn’t go away. But, do you see what’s happening here? I’m dancing around it; just talking about this Calling. Writing about it instead of whatever it’s calling me to write. Arrrrrg! Here we go again. Okay. Ahem! Let me get back to what I’m doing:

I’m writing to find my voice. I’m writing to get comfortable with my voice. I’m writing to explore what I’m learning and how I’m living. I’m writing to explore food. There’s an art to eating well, and I want to be an artist in the field. (That sentence struck a chord, just now.) I’m writing to explore the art of eating well. I’m writing to explore cooking. I’m taking food notes. I’m writing to explore and push my senses: sight, smell, sound, taste, touch. They’ve felt dull. Unstimulated. I’m writing to challenge myself.

It’s a start.

Happy week.

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