After three years of blogging some nights I sit at the computer and think–“what?”–what shall I write? Is there a theme which should be encompassed? Should I focus on Lake Superior and the land? The geography? The region, the people, the Upper Peninsula?
Should I be writing only spiritual blogs, blogs which satisfy the depth of self? Should only blogs be written which address the Universe, the Oneness, the connectedness of All of Us?
Or is it OK to write blogs which encompass the edges of self–the silliness, the craziness, the uniqueness of being human? Is it OK to write a silly blog, a humorous blog? Is it OK to celebrate the self, fully knowing that the self is but a blip in time, an anomaly, a passing moment?
Or should I return to writing nature blogs, taking close-up photos of nature, of ladybugs crawling up a branch?
And who is counting, who is deciding? Who is agreeing and who is disagreeing, and does it really matter?
It’s hard to write the blogs which make one face oneself, the hidden parts of self, the parts which are challenging, difficult. It’s hard to write blogs which are so different, so encompassing, so full of variety and movement and blaring horns and odd angles.
Should I only write when absolutely inspired–when the Muse appears and says in loud exclamatory insistence: WRITE!!! Or should I write because every day is special, unique, ready for praise?
Should we write because one person or six people read? Should we write because one hundred or two hundred pause by our blog-fireplace? Should we write for other people at all?
Should we instead remain silent, refusing to speak any more? Should we just say “enough” and quit writing altogether?
Daily I ponder these things. Daily I wonder if it’s time to simply stop writing. Most days I watch the writing happen through me–and that’s often enough.
Yet, the human part of me wonders, “Is there any more to possibly say? Any more stories to share? Any more tales? Or is it time to stop–to close WordPress–to bid you all adieu?”
Yet I keep writing. Writing, writing, writing. Until the end presents itself–until the stories dry up.
The Moment will write itself–in its uniqueness–and it shall write itself for you, too. For you, and you, and you. The Moment will sing its song through us and we shall write, thinking we’re the ones who write. But the truth is–we’re only the typists. We only type what the Moment reveals through us. As long as it desires. Over and over and over again.