I’ve always been a writer, but I didn’t realize it until 4 years ago when I broke and began blogging out of necessity to live. I quite literally felt like I would die if I didn’t express myself, even at the great risk of exposing myself to further judgment and hurt…and boy did it.
I’ve journaled non-religiously (because I wanted to and it felt good, not out of a sense of obligation that I was “supposed to”) throughout my adult professional religious life. I’ve got a few journals spanning the last 20 years wherein I poured out my heart and soul to myself and whatever God there is as I understood Them at the time…and the evolution of my voice reflects as much. The earlier years are formal full paragraphs and I bothered with punctuation and proper grammar and such. What’s funniest and most cringe worthy to me now reading the me of yesteryear is the repressed and stilted language I used, addressing God as “Lord” and heavily salted with all kinds of christianeze platitudes and catch phrases to express my most intimate thoughts and feelings.
LAWD, that poor damaged child, speaking to appease and avoid condemnation of the church biddies even in my own head, prayers and private journals. Stiff and stagnant as those early journal entries may be, I can still see the nuggets of revelation and inspiration that inspired me to write at all, and I was diligent about dating them and revealing some context of what was going on in life at the time.
Then there were the years where my entries were all about figuring out how to do church, thinking there was some magic formula of reading and studying and praying just right that would make it all come together. Gah…I can’t even handle looking at that now. All I want to do is reach into those pages and pull my tortured soul out of that toxic wasteland into sunlight and freedom. I look at the date of every hopeful entry where I was doing my darndest to pull myself up by my bootstraps, stay positive, do and say all the right things, and like watching a horror movie, I see the monster around the corner who’s about to devour the unsuspecting damsel. It doesn’t matter how loudly I scream, “No! Don’t go in there!”…she does…and it’s a bloody, gory mess.
My voice definitely evolved over time, or…devolved, actually, as everything I’d been led to believe and think crumbled away bit by bit until the final crash and ultimate deconstruction. The last few years, if I journaled at all, it was mostly short phrases and ideas, sometimes even just a word. Toward the end, that word was “FUCK.” When you’re a mangled bloody mess, it just works and brings a certain level of comfort and release when you can find precious little of either anywhere else.
Blogging had become my journaling…sort of. More like journaling on steroids. I do absolutely love the medium to talk about the things that are important to me, but it takes me hours and hours to get one out, usually using more words than most care to read. I can’t Tweet to save my life. The challenge to say something meaningful and witty in 140 characters or less….ha, ha, ha…NO.
I’m going to use my natural wordiness and passion for story telling to write a book, sooner than later, but on the way and as part of that process, I’m going to resume journaling and share them here on the Cage-Free blog – jotting down random things for no other reason than I notice them and want to document and save for posterity as blocks I might use to build something substantial down the road. That’s not work for me but 100% pleasure and how I make sense of and recognize the sacred in life 24/7. It ain’t preaching or trying to convince anyone of anything. It’s simply what I see as I go.
You (whoever you are) are so very welcome to see too…or not. Take or leave whatever you will, my blatherings are offered freely and without condition or expectation of what anyone else will do or think about them.
Now to figure out what I want to do with these. Part of me wants to burn them and release that poor repressed caged girl once and for all. The communal BBQ right outside is calling to me.