I often think back to the early days of this space. The first time I pushed past my Jitters, braved it, and clicked the “Publish Post” button was a monumental day. I didn’t know it then, but I know now, that day was the beginning of stepping into a new me.
Those early days of Running Chatter were much like the early days of new love. You know how it is when you spend every waking moment thinking about that special person. It’s been a long time since our love was “new”, but I still remember the way I would leave my dorm room hoping to run into Chad walking to one of his classes. I remember what a rush it was just to see him walk through the dining room with his friends. I remember counting the hours until we would see each other again. And if we weren’t together? I was thinking about and planning for the next time we would have time together.
My experience here was much like that. I thought about it all the time. I thought about what I would write. I anticipated the evenings, when the house was quiet, and I could sit down and just “be” with this space, with my thoughts, with our stories. There was excitement, enthusiasm, and almost a desperate need for this space. I approached Running Chatter with the same passion of a new relationship. It was in this space (or through this space?) that I poured out my intense grief over losing my Mom and, in turn, developed a deep appreciation of simple everyday blessings.
Of course, as most of us know, love changes. What begins as a burning fire of passion is often traded for a steady flame of commitment and intimacy. While I wouldn’t trade those college years with Chad, filled with anticipation and excitement, for anything, I am so thankful for the steady, powerful, and committed love we share now. I know that without those early years, we couldn’t have what we have now. And, if I expected those early years to last forever–we would fail.
Over the years, I’ve felt the same thing happening here. As our life, our family, and I change, so will this space. While I understand that it can’t always be what it used to be, I look forward and embrace what will come. . .
Recently, my Dad jokingly said to me, you’ve got a good thing going with your blog–the way you tell on yourself. Before anyone can get you–you get yourself. He’s right. I enjoy using my
somewhat absent mindedness, burnt Tupperware, and countless mommy mishap stories as fodder for my blog.
It’s more than that, though. It’s more than just telling on myself. To me, it’s bigger. Deep down in my bones, I hope I’m leaving three beautiful souls a legacy. . .
. . . a legacy that says, it’s okay to be you.
I know that they will not be immune from wandering and questioning, and searching. They will have their days when they hate me or hate themselves or hate their lives. Days when they just want to fit in or blend or stand out. These things are part of the process. The beautiful process of discovery. . .
As I’ve spewed my grief, fears, joys, sorrows, celebrations, neurosis and simple life here, I have embraced myself, and life, in a way I never did before. And maybe that what I want for them. I mean, what I really want them to understand, whether through our stories here or living life together, is this. . .
Shame is pointless.
Perfection is an illusion.
Life is to be lived.
I often wonder if my Mom knew this. I wonder if she was aware of the beautiful mess that is life. I suspect if she did. . . she would be here today. Instead, what she didn’t teach me in life, she teaches me in her death.
My Dad is right. . . I’ve got a good thing going with this space. As I’ve opened my soul, I’ve also been able to spread my wings and fly. . .
. . . free as a bird.
What am I trying to say? Thank you. Thank you, to those who have visited here, stayed here, embraced my words and our story. . .
. . . thank you for helping to make the space as comfortable as burning flame of enduring love.