Once upon a time I hiked across Spain with my mom. I can easily be taken back there whenever I come across the rush of hiking, the symphony of languages, the taste of a Magnum ice-cream bar and further more when I write. When I write I am brought back to processing through my trek in the evening at a cafe down in the town square. I am brought back to my love of writing in school, to the point of annoyance, where timed writing was…dare I say…fun?
I started a blog after that summer with aspirations to be diligent at it. In part due to the blog format not being what I wanted and also in part to my insecurities, I put my blog on the shelf with other dusty relics of goals. I like to think I make goals, but too often I find my insecurities placing goals on the shelf due to comparing, feelings of inadequacies and perhaps fear.
But I am not made with a spirit of fear.
My insecurities are not me.
And perhaps simple things, like blog writing, are reminders to myself of those truths.
So we’re back at the beginning. I’m not sure where this will go and I’d rather not limit it. Perhaps it will be funny, helpful or successful but ultimately I’m going for honesty. I hope this to an open look at life and a celebration at the comedic relief that comes along the way. I’m kinda a hot mess, I hope that the expense of growing pains, learning curves, adventures and misadventures alike can bring joy and insight to whoever is reading.
My friends Kelly and Brooke got me excited again to write. My mom has always encouraged me and I have always gravitated towards it. The moment that sticks out and I hope to be a reminder as I stick to blogging is 5th grade.
Do I hear….story time?
With garbage bag ponchos rustling in the wind, I laughed in disbelief and ridicule that we are being asked to listen for birds. As a wise fifth grader, Outdoors School was the epitome of existence, the whole year lead up to it. Now, off on the mystical island of Camp Woody we were finally here, the end of the year and the most coveted adventure out of all of the grades. The weather could not damp our spirits but was soaking our beings. The most torrential rain Kodiak has even unleashed fell like grace on the community of fifth graders.
Downpour. Hurricanes seemed to pale in comparison to the wind and dumping of water we were getting. Boots served as portable oceans and garbage bags made for extra rain coverage. The plastic loudly being tossed by the wind, the bird watching guide was determined that we could hear and spot some birds.
“Or maybe the birds are smarter than us and are snuggled up in dry places…” I grumbled at the comical attempt to engage soaked fifth graders.
From birdwatching we went to walk around in the history lesson of Woody Island. This was the home stretch and then boots off, blankets on was the plan for all of us, visibly shivering in the downpour.
As we walked it was difficult to focus. The history was fascinating however and we perched up as we felt the rain relent a bit. As our guide talked animatedly she explained
“So much of this history has been collected thanks to journals of women. It would seem that perhaps history should be called herstory.”
Feeling my journal pressed against my back nestled in the dry inside of my backpack I felt a sense of purpose. That writing was beyond myself, could writing make a difference?
Herstory is a great motivator for picking up the blogging front again. I am not claiming that this humble blog or my writing in general will be successful or life changing. But I know I’m a writer.
Cheers to herstory.
And it begins again.