There have been so many wonderful and indeed rather crazy happenings around the Miles household these past eight months, so much so that I have completely neglected (intentionally and unintentionally) this blog and keeping those in my life up to date with all the happenings. To recap all the things in one post is frankly rather silly, and some of the things I have no desire to relive at all (sleepless newborns and travelling husbands being the most significant). What I can say was this: it was a time of beautiful reflection on many aspects of my life, including (for our purposes) why I write in the first place.
Many years ago, in the midst of terrifying suffering, I had a wonderful epiphany: I am a damn good writer. I remember the day so vividly. I was sixteen years old and my daily existence was a shell of my former, joyful self. Mental illness encompassed my every movement and each day proved to be more and more exhausting. On this particular day, however, God offered me a brief relief. I was sitting in English class when my teacher began to hand back our tests from the previous week. Before she handed me mine, she asked for the class’ attention and, much to my surprise, began to read my essay aloud. She informed the class that my writing was above and beyond what she had asked, and that I was now the new standard for the entire class. Now, I should have been terrified; who on earth would want such a nerdy acclamation as a sixteen year old? So I attempted to brush off her compliments (especially later when I found out from other friends that she read my essay to each of her classes), but secretly I was thrilled. God had given me a gift: I was a writer. I went home that evening and attempted, as best I could, to journal my thoughts of the chaos of my mind. It wasn’t always easy; there were many times when even writing proved to be too painful, but writing was a kickstart to my healing, and I am forever grateful for it.
Fast forward many years later, when blogging seemed to be the only acceptable form of communication for the young writer, and frankly I thought it was a wonderful thing. In the midst of the craziness of motherhood and having a husband who frequently travels for work, I had long lost my daily journaling habits. I figured blogging provided a unique opportunity to do something I love while at the same time keeping our loved ones across the country informed on our happenings. There was also the added benefit of having others hold me accountable to my writing, or at least that was the theory. The problem, however, is in the process I found myself trying to blog as others do rather than how I wanted to. Seeking the approval of others was always a particularly painful cross of mine, and blogging only intensified this nastiness in my heart. This of course never seemed to be an issue with journaling, for no one (God-willing) would ever see the private writings of my heart. But blogging was different; soon there were followers and critics and, dare I say, the possibility to even make a little money? All of the sudden I forgot why I started blogging in the first place: peace, healing, and joy. Frankly, it shouldn’t matter how many people visit my page or even if my relatives see every single picture possible of my little guys. I have realized these past few months that God gave me a love for writing, writing about what I want to write about and how I want to write about it. The few posts that I enjoyed the most (where I found the most peace) I have read numerous times over and each time I smile, because I find that I am reading my true self.
God has shown me other things in this process, things that are mine (and my husband’s) alone, but I will end with this: blogging is a terrifying and beautiful thing, for it forces me to not only examine my intention (something we should be doing with or without blogging) but it also forces me into the ever uncomfortable realm of vulnerability, which is why I will continue to blog in the first place.
So I will begin again writing about things I want to write about, and when I want to write about them without carrying with me the burden of feeling that I am doing it all incorrectly. I am so thrilled for this! In doing so, I probably won’t be sharing many of these posts on facebook. Some, perhaps, but not many. I am mainly looking forward to just enjoying writing again, free from all its worries and critics.