Dawn gets Meta...

Dear Friends,

I miss writing. I miss my journal, I miss this blog. Not that they aren't around anymore, but because I haven't used them recently. 

Writing for me used to be the one and only way that I dealt with... just about anything. Emotions, thoughts, questions I couldn't unravel. writing was my outlet and I needed it. Needed to get out the thoughts that floated through the endless space that is my mind. There was a time when I got antsy without writing.

Writing still helps. I still adore and treasure my journal and the physical process that writing puts me through.

but I don't need it. I find myself talking to people more. I've always been talkative. But in the past year or two I find myself beginning to say the things that really matter. To you, to the ginger, to friends, to nerdfighters, to people who understand. Sometimes serious things, sometimes silly things. Sometimes revelations, other times questions.

I suppose there have always been people who listening and who understood, but for a long time I didn't want to say anything to them. I wanted to tell the paper.

I'm not sure how I feel about all this. I love writing, I really honestly do. But I don't need it as much. and it's bizarre. For so long I was so dependent, and now it is almost as an afterthought that I write in my journal. This saddens me. My own thoughts should not be an afterthought, I should not be an afterthought. 
but I am so glad that I can talk to people.

I suppose what I really need to do is stop thinking so much about writing - and just write. That is what I have tried to do here, and I will try to do for myself in my journal as well. 

When my family was camping for Thanksgiving I was struck, as I am every year, by nature. The beauty of it, but also the sheer force. The lake is so incredibly big and powerful, and that's without taking into account the thousands of living creatures that call it home.There are rocks along that shore that have taken millenia to shape themselves into the exact formation we see this day.  What are we to that? To quote Virginia Woolf "the very stone one kicked with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare". 

We ARE something, and we CAN leave an imprint. I do not doubt this. But it astounds me when I think about the way our lives are intertwined with those of the chipmunk nibbling peanuts off the picnic table, and the tree bent over from the power of the wind.

I suppose I marvel at it. At our world, and beyond our world. At all of time and space. Everything that was and ever will be. 

And I wish  I had the words to say it. 


Stormy Weather by FH Varley