I’ve struggled with getting back onto the blogging wagon here after far too long of a lapse. I’ll make my excuses about depression, writer’s block and a baby turned toddler monster, then let’s move on.
I’ve always blogged as a way to get stuff out of my system. I’ve always enjoyed writing what’s in my brain and on my heart as a way of processing stuff and getting rants off my chest. Looking back, I’ve had this blog for over 5 years now and what a long fraught and exciting road it’s been. Here we go on another turn into 2015.
Having sat down at this cafe on Tottenham Court Road, my coffee already drained dry, I fully intended on spending a few hours writing either creatively, reactively or therapeutically. Whatever comes, comes. I’m very judgmental of what I write before it even comes out which is such a shame. Don’t do that, ever. Just let what your impaired or full or bouncing with joy mind say what it needs to say. There’s always the ‘save as draft’ option.
What I’ve found myself doing over the last couple hours isn’t what I expected. I was curious how long Inked Eskimo had been going so I looked back at its start to January 2009. I’m pretty sure I imported the older posts from my previous platform and that there were more before even that which didn’t make the move somehow. At any rate, what I found was my 32-year-old newlywed self speaking to me deeply. Encouraging and challenging me. Reminding me of what it was like to have existed in a place that was full of hurt, confusion, early burnout and poverty and yet to be so full of hope and faith. It was a time when I could talk about God openly, share my faith as well as my doubts, and know because of what I’ve experienced of the supernatural operating via wonderful and equally struggling friends who had rescued me time and time again, that everything would be okay as God was with me.
Nowadays I view such talk as mindless and dull. Irritating. Yet my younger self was able to knock on my door thanks to what I wrote about miracle rent payments, being dragged out of bed during fits of depression by my wonderful husband (who is the best picture of Jesus I know), small glimpses of colour and grace courtesy of simple crafting projects, and dialogues with socialists near the time of the bend in my political leanings. I’ve been reminded of truths thanks to this blog.
I recently returned from a 3 month furlough back in the states in pursuit of finding my place in this world: USA, UK, vocationally, emotionally. One thing I came up with is that I need to get on with writing myself back home. I’ve always been a writer, though on most days I certainly don’t feel like it. I’d rather catch up on Lost episodes because I’m already like 10 years behind and can’t stand to wait any longer. But what today has shown me is that maybe it’s not always writing ourselves home that matters but seeing what we’ve already done to create a pathway home for ourselves. Or maybe I’m just wandering around in circles. Perhaps that’s it – our lives are orbits, circling something central to truth and hope. Sometimes our orbit is closer to this truth and sometimes it’s further away, a bit like seasons. Our orbits differ in speed, shape and size and that’s perfectly okay. Our orbits will intersect, sometimes leading to explosions, terrific gravitational pull, or just a glimpse of something different and inspiring as we catch the dust of another passing planet.