Defining this blog has always posed a real challenge for me. “What do you write about?” remains one question I find repeatedly has me feeling flustered. The answer to that question doesn’t fit succinctly into a 120 character bio. Nor does it sit in any real category even though I’ve divided this growing body of work into a few for the ease of my followers.
I can’t say “Alas, the muse comes and I channel her”, without sounding like I’m engaging in something other-worldly.
I can’t say “I write about my life”, since frankly, hardly any of my life makes it onto this page.
I have no interest in the ‘deflecting with humour’ tactic, since saying self deprecating things about this blog is of zero service to me. In truth; reading some of my old posts makes me cringe so much I want to tear them down. I don’t, out of respect for my past selves who struggled up stormy mountains to rise beyond her own self-imposed limitations.
I’ve recently started sort- of seeing someone. It reminded me what a fucking nightmare it is ever having to broach the topic of “the blog” (not that I plan on doing that anytime soon. I like to cross my fingers and hope no one I decide to screw ever searches me too hard on the internet; a fun, risky game I play with myself).
It’s an awkward subject. I’ll be the first to admit it. Dating is essentially a filtering process, which consistently brings your awareness to the nuanced ways in which you self-abandon. The version of me the majority of the world sees is so utterly different to the one who writes about women’s circles and orgasms. Would I feel comfortable letting another human in to explore these bits?
And what then? Do I give them access? Tell them to go and read about the workings of the most vulnerable parts of my mind and soul? I’m not saying that being a food or lifestyle blogger is easy… but if that was my title, I don’t think I’d be facing this particular occupational hazard.
My ex didn’t set foot on here. He didn’t read a single thing I wrote. In some ways, that was beautiful. My safe space held its sanctity. There are certainly other people in my life whom I wish would do the same. But with a lover or a partner, it’s different. I have a deep desire for the person I love to want to dive deep into this page, to want to soak it all in and get their brain dirty with my words. I want them to be fascinated by my complexity, enthralled by my journey and blown away by my art. I also want them to proceed with great caution and handle this page like they would a small child. If I show you this work; know I have taken a great risk to trust you. Know I am exposing myself and baring my soul to you in cold, rough, nakedness. Know I am extracting my heart from the walls of my chest and handing it over to you, asking you to handle it with deep care and compassion.
For now, though, consider each blog a snapshot. It’s how I channel the muse in that moment. Sometimes she’s been brewing for months. Other times, hours. There are yin times where I inhale and consume and seem to be silent for weeks on end, followed by yang times where I exhale and integrate and write. Sometimes the flow is channeled by deep, gnawing pain that is yet to be processed. Other times it’s sunrises and good sex that inspire me. It’s a soul thing. An embodiment thing. Either way, lover, be discerning. Be open. Know it’s never really even about you. Are you conscious enough to really get that?
Read by the wrong eyes, the consequences could be somewhat hilariously catastrophic. Read by the right eyes, the consequences could be heart opening, honest, awakening and aligning.
Either way, each snapshot of words I channel on here is my way of coming home. I endeavour not to forget that amidst all the noise.