I’ve been refraining from writing in my blog lest I present myself as enamored with personal Tales of Woe. This blog should be a happy place, my safety zone, a place of Joy and Peace and Healing.
When I started this blog in 2005, I was unaware that it was a creative way of managing my stressful life. It was an exciting, new method of recording my life experiences. I enjoyed the immediacy of communication and the right to freely publish without restriction or fear of terminology I used or the political correctness of my words.
However, I was also unaware of how purposeful my blog had become. It was not only a digital memory of life experiences, but it had transitioned into a way of encouraging my creativity. I was going to design the blog in my fashion, post when I felt like it, and express myself through my life’s journey. It’s an amazing source of pleasure to know that I did this by myself in a small room surrounded by clutter and disarray.
It also was the place where I could tap into my light to illuminate the world in which I lived. Through reading my posts, I could witness my own shortcomings, failures, successes, events that helped to shape me. I could recognize my hand in manifesting the chaos that I surrounded myself in without judgment.
But smack dab in the middle of all of that positive reinforcement and motivation, I was also inadvertently reinforcing some queer beliefs that lingered underneath the posts. They hung out in the shady cracks and crevices of a story I was telling.
But that story no longer serves me.
I’m not a victim nor a child any longer. Oh sure, I have childlike qualities which are a permanent part of who I am, but I am in charge of my own destiny.
May you come to discover the real true you. Remember, as long as your heart’s in the right place, you’ll never go wrong!
I left breadcrumbs so that I could find my way back as I traveled through the wood. At my lowest point, I’d almost forgotten where they lay but cast aside my doubts when I spotted a cottage. Lit from the inside with an appealing, warm light, I observed it from a distance. I was afraid that someone or something would open the door and chase me, but nothing did. I waited a long time and drew nearer so that I could walk around and test my resolve. To my surprise, I discovered that it was empty inside. Hesitantly, I pushed the front door ajar and walked past the threshold. The cottage was sparsely decorated: a pale green rocking chair, a tiny end-table, a trunk and a cot. The floor was littered with leaves and dirt–which I had a hand in tracking in–and a circular, woven rug lay just the foot of the rocking chair I sat in to rock myself to sleep. I awoke to the sound of rain and felt a few drops on my forehead. The ceiling above me began to leak from other spots too, so I turned my torso to the left while still seated and saw a set of narrow cupboards against the far wall. I got up and opened each cupboard one by one, finding a pail and some chipped red clay pots to capture the rain in the ceiling that cried.