I really want
to update my blog more than I do. I imagine writing blog posts at least 3-4
times a week, but I don’t. Life has been intensely rocky lately and I am scared
to write about it. I have always been way too concerned with what others think.
As I’ve gotten older, I have been somewhat less concerned, but still too concerned. Something has got to
give. I have got to get over that. Writing is the only way I know how to deal
with life and I keep far too much in the privacy of my own notebooks. Not that
I should air everything, but I believe getting some stuff out in the open would
be beneficial to me and maybe even others.
It’s not just
me. People in general are too concerned about image to be real with others. I
can’t help but wonder what would happen is we were more open. If we let people
in. If we let them see our vulnerabilities. We would probably be surprised at
how alike we really are. I am not there yet, where I can share things I want to
share. I do think hope I’m heading that way.
I can’t help
but think of Emily Dickinson. Her words scatter across Literature Books as one
of America’s greatest poets. However, she kept all her words to herself. Her
secrets. It wasn’t until after she died and over 1700 poems were revealed that
her life became an open book. Of course, the fact that she was a hermit adds to
her appeal as a writer, but what would have happened if she was open to sharing
with others? She had so much to say; yet no one knew until she was dead.
This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,--
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!
What does she mean in this poem?
I don’t know how to end this blog post. I usually try and think
of a clever closing sentence or something to wrap up my thoughts. But I really