Today I walked along a swollen creek. A swollen creek in the middle of December without a hint of snow. Today I thought about how this blog isn’t going to be like anybody else’s blog. It won’t be like Emily’s blog, or Max’s blog, or Esta’s blog; sometimes I don’t think it will even be like my blog because I don’t know what my blog is supposed to look like. It won’t look like Veronicah Rose’s blog cause’ who she is exactly I have yet to discover. She’s supposed to let me stop the masquerade, but apparently she isn’t helping as much as she was supposed to. They say it’s two steps forward and one step back, but I still like my first post best, I still liked my spiritual life better last month than this month… Walking along the creek in a plain red hoodie I discovered a mini-waterfall that looked as if it had been there for months, but I knew it hadn’t, it had probably just been created recently in the flood. I splashed through a muddy swamp where the water had spread yards over its’ banks, I watched whirlpools in the middle of sitting water, I heard the breaking of ripples that were bigger than they were supposed to be onto stones I couldn’t see. I crossed once, making the mossy rock three inches underwater my stepping stone. Maybe this blog will be like a swollen creek, or maybe not, I might be more predictable than that.
As I listen to sad songs and write this I begin to breathe again. I don’t know how to describe it, it’s like the fresh air is finally reaching my soul and rejuvenating it. That’s what writing does for me. Most every blogger I know says their early posts were horrible, which isn’t very comforting to a new blogger. But I’m writing anyway; I can’t keep it in.The words pour out as a dam released poured out the overflow into that creek. About fifty percent of people are happy with the nearly snowless December we’ve had thus far, the other fifty are hoping for a white Christmas and some frozen ground to take care of this mud. Maybe only fifty percent will like what I write, probably less than that. It doesn’t really matter because I can’t change their minds any more than I can change the weather. Well, unless I change what and how I write, but that isn’t going to happen. It feels good to type without reserve. Maybe you think I’m a horrible person because I don’t care what you think, maybe I am. After all I am one of the half who wish for snow and frozen ground. Perhaps it’s the weather that’s made me pessimistic. Regardless, I’m feeling better now. I’m headed off on a jaunt to take pictures of a swollen creek now that the camera has been found. I’ll once again be the dot of red against a sloppy background that looks like it’s from an impressionist painting. But hey, for today, that may be what I’m meant to be.