Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Somewhere in the telling

Having a blog, or several blogs, over the past few years has been an interesting experiment for me.

It's evolved from a blow by blow menagerie of current events and report of 'weather' types of things meant just for my family, to something with a little more meat.  It has been one of my greatest challenges.

Despite my seemingly public display of sarcasm on social media, I am a very mysterious person; private too but I think mysterious describes me better.  I am a chameleon of souls, fitting in whenever and wherever and acting out whatever the moment dictates. I can be in the farthest depths of sadness, yet no one would be the wiser.

To write my blogs with more honesty and less self censoring is one of the hardest things I have done and I still don't do it well. I read with jealousy, other people's blogs who just lay it all out there.  All the good, the bad and the horribly ugly stuff.  The feelings you never want to admit to a soul, not even your favorite friend. I love reading those blogs!  I love to see the process of living played out in real lives.

I have a hard time admitting to even myself, the chaos of a life I have.  I have become so good at just narrating my life as a 3rd person reporter on the 10:00 news.  People have often said I should write a book.  I have written a book.  It has a title and everything. I even submitted that book last fall to a publishing company in New York and they basically told me it held great promise if I could just 'own' the story.

Not a day goes by that I don't think about that phrase, owning your story.

With everything we have had fall onto our already teaming plate of life, I have wondered about quitting the blog world and just writing on one of my other blogs that remain hidden away with pen names and privacy walls so it is only fit for my eyes.  I've thought that maybe people are sick of hearing our sad, and somewhat pathetic story.  I've wondered why, if it's so hard for me to admit my own life, I continue to try every day.

Today, I realized that it comes down to one word.  Witness.  There is something about having your story witnessed. It's like that old, philosophical  riddle, "If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?"

 For me, I write because the paper and the pen is my witness.  The proof that it happened.  That I was here.  That I lived. That I felt.  That I loved.  That I did.  That it hurt.  That it mattered.  That I am.

There is something deep within me that drives me to tell the story.  My story.  I am realizing that it's okay that my story isn't full of funny moments like I wish it could be.  It's become a story of becoming.  I'm facing heart wrenching things and some days, I feel strong and some days, so very tired and weak.  It is all a part of the story.  There are some days, most days, I resent that this is my story.  I want to be writing a different story.  This quote speaks volumes of how I feel...



I know that at the end of the day...that very long day when it is all said and done, it will be discovered somewhere in the telling of my stories that it was the best story ever.  I hope when that moment comes, I will see that it was a story worth living; that I will see the 'becoming' that comes with living and enduring through the trials.

That's what I hope comes of telling stories.  And so it goes, somewhere in the telling...
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