entering into the world.
sunrise.
Nearly two years ago, I sat down to write my first blog post. It never quite made it. Today, I returned to try again, to write an introduction that somehow encompasses the insanity of the last year. But as I read my words posted below, I realized these were the right ones. We already know what the last year was like. Instead, I’ll start where I had hoped to, and move into 2021 with the same feelings of hope and resiliency I had then.
Feb. 20 2019
Somewhere around 2004, I started a blog. The internet felt more like a deep abyss back then, and it was pretty great to shout into it with no expectation of it being heard. It didn’t last long, maybe because I didn’t have much to say? Flash forward 15 years and here we are. Blogs are now things that are something, linked to Instagram and businesses and money. It’s an industry and a career path. But I think that there is something fundamentally the same, that it feels good to write, and to write to other people. So I’ll write into the (well-lit) abyss, knowing that my sisters, a few friends, and maybe even a couple of strangers will stop by and connect. And I’ve got no doubt that I’ve now got plenty to say.
Real writing is something I forget about. It’s openness and low expectations, beholden only to me and you, the reader. I’ve tried to use social media as an outlet for expression and connection but it comes with weird pressure, perceived judgement, my own stuff. I readily admit that judgement is of my own making and the online communities I have found myself in are kind and open. But, nonetheless, it is there for me. Maybe it’s the succinct pithiness of it, or the gushing hyperbole. Or maybe that it’s just that I’m old now, and these new fangled ways of communication just aren’t for me. Give me an early aughts blog, though, and I’ll tuck right in.
I am a person who loves to talk about feelings, processes, and experiences. It’s why I love working with youth, because they exist in this realm. Hearts on sleeves, minutiae of everyday experience, and the innerworkings of relationships - this is my jam. But as I’ve grown older and life has grown busier, I find myself turning inward and neglecting the value of expression and the practice of processing. There’s too much to do, don’t open a can of worms, you’ll be fine and figure it out on your own - all these thoughts, subconsious and not, shut it down and put me on autopilot. So this is where writing can be my outlet, my void. Swirling thoughts have no place to land without being spoken or written - writing is my antidote. When the words are out they are real and don’t go back in, no matter how messy or confused they may be. And I will move forward in my day knowing I have given myself a small, well deserved gift. The gift of listening to myself.
But don’t worry - this will not be a space of existential pondering and emotional musing on the nature of middle age, although I’m sure they’ll pop in to say hello. This space is for connection - to our food, our flowers, our land and each other. And for the art of process - taking something raw and simple and sometimes scary, and carrying it forward with care and thoughtfulness towards a new part of its essential self. This is farming and cooking and flowers and land and children. We coax it along and hope it goes in the direction we want or into a whole new, unexpected form. And when it doesn’t (because it most definitely won’t) we are agile in our response, because failure is one of the spaces in which we learn the most. Or we just chuck it in the bin because it was probably a crap idea to begin with.
Welcome. I’m so glad you’re here.
sarah