owning my words as mine
I completely forgot what I was going to write about today.
Yesterday's post gave me post-writing epiphanies. After I'd finished, I had all these ideas come to me to write about. But this afternoon, they've been absorbed back into my brain. They'll resurface, if they really need to be written about. But for now, I have no followup. Not that I needed one. I just thought it might be here, waiting to be written. Oh well. No shoulds.
Contrary to most blogging advice, I blog right here, in the moment, stream of consciousness. And I'm giving you my life here, not completely unfiltered (because after all, this is a page of words a day, compared to the many hours of living one does every day/night and words are themselves a filter of consciousness). There are subjects that take me awhile to process, other things I don't ever touch upon, life experiences I don't think or write about much because they don't seem that unusual to me (but are).
I do my best. I write what needs to be written because it is here, as my fingers type.
Then I go back and edit the hell out of my own words. (Sometimes a lot, sometimes a little.) I don't have any qualms about deleting. Sometimes I cut and paste before I delete. Not often. Only when the words are good, but don't fit into the words around them. Sometimes those make new posts. Often not. Eventually they get deleted, if not.
I call the shots entirely with this blog. It is mine. These are my words. If they are given freely, as a gift, they are still coming from me, entirely.
(These words are a gift to myself.)
This is my practice. This is my temple. These are my prayers.
And on the days when the topic(s) I thought I needed to write are missing, I still look at the blank page and start.
The first start to this post was about the walls of our living room. I'm not a house blogger. But I do like the way the instruments look next to our ketubah. Then I started writing something else and erased those words. This is what came today instead. It means more to me than describing the walls of the living room. But sometimes, descriptions matter, too. But that's not what I needed to write abut today.
This is my practice. This is my life. These are my prayers.
These are the words that I write to myself and offer to you. Some of them might have more meaning to you. Some of them might have more meaning to me. Some of them are probably silly and other than making my mother snort, probably could have been done without. Nevertheless, there they are. The record of my (writing) life.
This is my practice. This is my writing. These are my prayers.