I’m a writer.  My works aren’t published and I’m not that good, but writing has been my constant companion since I was very young.  It’s how I cope with, process, and celebrate life.

But sometimes I have no idea what to write.

Like right now.

I don’t know what to say.  I am at a loss for words and I am NEVER at a loss for words.  This whole ‘first blog’ thing is really scary.  I feel like there’s a lot riding on what I write.  The first blog is supposed to be like a resume: supposed to introduce my prospective audience (employers) to me so that they want to come back to share in my life (hire me).  I feel like I’m supposed introduce myself and the intentions of the blog, but I can’t.

I’m still in the process of getting to know myself.  I can’t really make any introductions yet.  Each blog I write will be a deeper intro to me and how I tick.  I can’t tell you what this blog is going to be about because I don’t know.  I don’t know what people want to hear/read.  I’m typing now under the covers in my bedroom with a knot of fear curling in my belly that I’m opening up yet another can of worms that I am not ready for.  I’ve got a lot to write, but who wants to read it?  I’ve got tons to say, but what’s the central theme/message?  Does a blog need to have a theme or message?  What if I want to write one day about a friendship gone awry and the next about a movie that I really, really love?  What if I want to write about my faith, my passion for teaching, my love of fried rice?

Who cares?

I need to write and so I will.  I’ll write about it all.  The church I go to, the silly things that happen, the places I’ve been dreaming of visiting, whatever I think of.  I’ll write for me.  I’ll write with integrity and honesty.  I’ll write raw and open.  That’s scary, but it’s the only thing that can bring healing.  I’ve seen a lot of fake in life and I’m tired of it.  I want something real.  I want to be part of something real.

Welcome to my journey through this one wild and precious life.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?