A Long Haitus...

I'm writing again! *Cheers for self* 

Frankly, I did a bad thing. Several bad things. I was starting the Canning Marathon of 2015 (an annual event) and realized I had not idea what the recipe was for Pit and Peel Jelly, only to then find out that I ALSO didn't remember my own blog address to go find it! Red flag number one had been thrown.

Red flag number two came when a good friend of mine posted that she was going to start a blog to help organize her thoughts and get right with the emotions of being a mom. I thought,"That is totally why I started my blog too! Cool!....wait....do I still have a blog?"

Red flag number three came when I was cleaning my office (another annual event) and found my list of things I wanted to do this year. Every year for my birthday, I make a list of things I want to do, corresponding with my age. My "30 Things I Want To Do While I'm 30" had a very bold line (number 25) stating that I wanted to blog because it would clear my mind and make me feel like I had a presence in this world. I mean, it just said "BLOG!" but I got my own subtext and know that it meant something deep and emotional at the time.

Not only do I need to write HERE, but I need to write HERE! I have a business to run as well, which should also require me to entice people to read my flubbering words now and then.I always intended to write free patterns, keep a journal of fun projects, and even share my business journey with those who are trying to start their own.

So, I'm back! Although, a blog post about needing to write blog posts does not boast well, I still hope to continue along this path. I feel like "blog guilt" is something I am not alone in feeling.

So, I'll do better. I'll document more. I'll even sit down and write now and then. *Gasps*

I guess I should write then...

So I've been contemplating taking a new plunge -- a dive off of the proverbial cliff -- and into a sea of rejection slips of my own making.  I know I will be swimming in them long before an acceptance ever comes back. I know that, in my gut, I'll probably lose hope several times along the way.  But what I pray I achieve through all of this diving, swimming, and possible drowning is to come up, at least once, with a publication.  Something that is mine -- my blood and sweat and anger and joy -- all on paper for someone else to read.   But what I realized after I decided I was ready for this vast sea of rejection -- this massive undertaking -- and what I realized after I had searched through a few sites of freelance work looking for places to submit... I should probably write something.

All the work I have is from college.  It is all mediocre at best and most of it still has my "college voice."  I was more rebellious then, more angry, more sexual, and by far more naive.  I tended to write about adolescence, growing up, struggles with morals and (did I mention?) sex.  But what I don't have -- not one single page -- is my voice.  This voice.  The one who has used far too many fragments and hyphens to put a solid thought together, and yet, that's how I feel like I speak.  What I am now.  More of a fragment.

I'm made up of lots and lots of fragments.  I'm okay at a lot of things, decent at some, even darn good at a rare few, but I'm not any one thing.  This blog will undoubtedly roam all over the map in the jagged line of a person without a compass.  From canning, to cooking, to crocheting stuffed toys (something I love to think about and rarely have time to do), and hopefully it will always come back to writing.  Maybe that's the only place on the map with a gas station.  Or a clean bathroom.

But here it is -- all shiny and new -- my primary goal.  Write.  This blog is my warm-up routine.  Maybe more, maybe less.  I'm sure on many days it will be all I can bear to do just to jot down my grocery list on a blank page here, or celebrate a recent couponing success that will get my family along a little longer with free toilet paper and mac n' cheese.  But hopefully, it will also help me find my new voice.  One the flows from my fingers like it used to. I can remember the sensation -- like water roaring over your skin with such a pace you can barely move.  Like it's all you can do to wiggle your fingers and rock to and fro.  I can get back there, if I try hard enough and work hard enough, and write every damn day like I used to before I had duties and children and laundry.  I can get back there if I forgo some sleep, and some free time, and a phone conversation here and there.

With a cough and sputter, my voice will come.  I can feel a trickle already.

I tried to write, and this came out...

I haven’t written for a while.  My brain is stiff, hardened by diapers, laundry – fear, time.  My hands are smaller than I remember on this keyboard, like they fit there once, but I washed them too hot too many times, and now all they are good for is scraps.  Opening and closing my fingers splits and cracks the hardness, like bending branches in spring, and I need them to grow green and alive on the inside.  No more backspaces, just motion.  Fluidity.  Words. 

Writing used to come so naturally, like cutting open a vein and bleeding onto paper.  I used to love what I wrote – like anyone loves a child.   Stories were my creations, each one more precious than the last, each with their glorious individuality that I praised myself for and in which I reveled.  I read them now, and get fidgety and nervous, like I’m taking a test in a subject I’ve never heard of.  I can’t breathe when I read it.  It’s not mine – it’s not me.  It’s dirty, raw, filled with some kind of sourness I can’t explain but just feel.  It’s not my work.  

I drown out the toddler next to me reciting the sounds letters make, and try to keep my hands moving.  Cramping.  They just don’t move like they used to.   A says “ah.” D says “deh.”  And I encourage him to create sounds, pictures, words, and I can’t seem to do it myself.  It’s like I’ve been holding back tears and all I can get out is a squeak behind the lump in my throat.  I choke on any kind of flow I once had.  I cough and sputter and take the lid off of another washable marker to give to my little one.  My tangible creation.  

Stiffness I can’t massage away, and I think heat, a shower, and more time may help the words flow.  Plus, I’m being called by a dryer buzzer, a falling sippy cup, another reason to stray from the keyboard.  Fear.  Fear of losing something that was as easy as breathing to take care of someone who actually breathes.  And worse, being content at watching the balloon float away, until it’s a speck and I don’t even remember the color anymore. 

Happy 2014!

So, there are 13 minutes until the new year.  Count this as my first entry of many, I hope.   One of my goals for the year is to blog more, and to blog here and on the MOPS blog of which I am currently in charge, so I am going to be doing my fair share of writing this year.

My personal take on New Year's Resolutions has a lot to do with my January birthday.  When I was in high school, I started writing down "XX Things I Want To Do While I'm XX."  I like it better than a new year's resolution.  It gives me lots of things to work on, lots of smaller goals, and it gives me a month of overlap between New Year's and my birthday that count as my makeup month.  I have a month to start out on the new ones and a month to finish up old ones.  Needless to say, January gets pretty busy (and I do a lot of reading, because I'm usually behind on the number of books I wanted to read.)

But I'm also behind on the number of words I want to write, and so I'm going to do better.   But for everything else, here is my list:

29 Things I Want to Do When I’m 29

1.      Gain muscle and get healthier.

2.      Eat something green every day.

3.      Look good in my swim suit.

4.      Starbuck arms.  So Say We All!

5.      Cook at home four nights a week.

6.      Skinny pigs.  I will own one (or two).

7.      Teach at least three crochet classes.

8.      Crochet three whole blankets, Grandma Mary style.

9.      Be a better wife to my husband.

10.  Expect less and give more.

11.  Invest positive energy into my boys. 

12.  Encourage Corbin, instead of putting him down.

13.  Potty train Myles.

14.  See the ocean.

15.  Go camping for the first time.

16.  See a National monument (preferably Mount Rushmore.)

17.  Cosplay in my Pinkie Pie dress.

18.  Spend more time outside this summer, and at the pool.

19.  Grow a small garden in a few pots.

20.  Try one new food.

21.  Get Iggy’s hair cut every 6-8 weeks so he NEVER mats.

22.  Do a craft project with my kids for each month or holiday.

23.  Figure out hormones.

24.  Read 12 fiction books.

25.  Blog. Both my own and MOPS.

26.  Take two Bible studies.

27.  Read my devotional every day.

28.  Organize my yarn stash in a reasonable way.

29.  Pick up freelance work or get job using my degree.