I realized today that I have been writing this blog for one year now. Thirty posts in 365 days. When I started it I thought I would post a daily rant (goal setting again), but it rarely ended up that way. Too much happens in day-to-day life that stirs the soup of memory.
My own personal Terrance Malik movie without the lovely visuals.
Atherapist (and others) have urged me to use “journaling” to process “personal growth”.
Can’t. Hate it.
I have tried to journal and felt like everything I was writing was false, whiny, clumsy and embarrassing. And I couldn’t bear to re-read it. The method – “set aside 20 minutes a day where you will be uninterrupted” – made me too self-conscious. Like I should wear a hippie skirt and light incense to get in the mood. It reminded me of going to confession as a kid. I would wait on line trying to think up sufficient “sins” that would not result in too many Hail Mary’s.
Writing a blog, however, for strangers (and friends who stumble on it), is easy and fun. I write when a thought strikes me. I am still writing about “the personal” and (hopefully) gaining insight, but it’s a different activity. Public v. private. Maybe I need an audience – even one I can’t see. Maybe being my own audience is too awful. Who knows. Its clear my target audience is not a priest.
The past may not be past, but I know I can choose what I do with it. My conclusion, after a year of blogging, is that most anything can be turned into a funny story.