Happy Birthday to Black Ink Pad!
It was three years ago that I started my rambling, babbling journey here. (I find it very apropos that this day hits the day after I finished my 30 Days of Truth gig - thank all the gods we're done with that!)
Three years ago today I started writing my posts here for no other reason except that I knew I had to write something, somewhere, somehow. I had just lost my beloved mate and I was still learning how to breathe in a world without him. Writing was easier than breathing. Writing allowed me to focus on everything I was feeling without having to concentrate on it. If you've been anywhere in that vicinity, you know the fine difference between the two processes.
In looking back over most of my posts, I'm amazed. Really. Just flat out astounded at how far I've come in three short years, at how much my life has changed, then changed again, then changed all over again. All so quickly.
I'm blown away at how much I have changed, at the growth that has come out of some incredibly rocky slopes. I'm dazzled by the things I've discovered within myself. Three years ago if you'd said, "You're a writer, Barb." I'd have scoffed and said, "No. Not really." Now I acknowledge it freely. I am a writer. Three years ago if you'd said, "You're an artist, Barb." I would have looked around to see what other Barb you were talking to. Really, truly. Now I embrace it. I am an artist.
Three years ago I was sad, lonely, alone. Alone like a stone at the bottom of the Universe. I forced myself to reach out. It took real effort. I forced myself to connect. It took some painful stretching. I forced myself to become the person that those who know and love me best have always said was there. It took some incredibly painful soul surgery.
I blossomed. I found friendship and love in the oddest places. I found beauty in the patterns of rock that lined my path. I even cracked a few open and found treasure. I learned to stand up for myself. I learned to speak up for myself. I welcomed the mysterious gypsy that was hiding in me and learned everything I could about her. I learned that I really liked her, that it was time to let her shine.
I'm impressed that this little online "diary" of mine has developed such readership. People I don't even know, or know about, have in depth knowledge of my life. That's a weird thought, but comforting at the same time. I'm being heard, and that's something I've longed for. Still, I'm constantly surprised that people can relate, or relate so much, to some of what I post. You, my Dear Readers, have no idea how much warmth you lend to my day when I read your responses and emails. Thank you.
I've often said that I'm selfish when I write. I write this for me, not for you. Today I confess that this isn't true - at least not entirely. If what I write can change the texture of your day, maybe even a week. If my words can possibly have impact that makes a difference, for the better, in a life... how humbling. It's a weight I will gladly shoulder.
But, I do write this for me. I need to write.
And every now and then I need to read it too.
Just to remind myself that life is full of different days.