Hey, so, yeah…it’s been a while since I’ve been here.
How are you?
I’ve changed the name of my blog, in case you hadn’t noticed, or wondered why you are getting something from “rosé and wry” not “Vinegar and Vanilla”. It seemed like the right thing to do, a little refresh on the old blog.
I’m not focusing on “my journey as a woman and writer” any more. That no longer resonates within me. I’m not writing to “become” a writer, or to establish myself as one – professional or otherwise. I am no longer trying to be a novelist, nor a journalist, nor a memoirist.
Indeed, the only thing one needs to do in order to be a writer is, well, write.
What, then, do I write?
I write the truth, my truth – even though it changes from day to day, moment to moment – in the hopes that my truth and your truth may recognize each other and embrace as dear, old friends.
I write thoughts. Sometimes they come out as poems or devotions, vows of wonder, prayers of thanks to nature or humanity or mystery or magic.
I suppose that is the goal – if there has to be one, and maybe there doesn’t.
I believe the ultimate goal of all humanity for all time is to embrace another, to feel connected to another human. To feel – even for a moment – another heartbeat, an exhale and an inhale of understanding – the sharp intake of, “Oh. Yes. That. Me, too.”
The ultimate “me too” moment, though maybe less tortured, less horrific, less sad. But maybe that, too, because that’s OK and sadness needs company too.
Sure, happiness is a more exuberant dance partner, more fun, more festive, more acceptable in public, but sadness, too, likes to dance, wants to be held close and slowly swayed and rocked into a state of understanding. A judgement free slow dance where everything unspoken is understood and accepted. Seen. Honored. Acknowledged.
And then, after the sad, slow dance at the end of the night you can part – deliberately, softly, as the lights are turned on and your eyes begin to adjust. You blink as the space between you widens and cools and you look down, slightly embarrassed and uncomfortable, still holding hands with sadness, but letting go, maybe a little reluctantly because it felt so good to be held, even though you know the song has ended, the dance is over, and it’s time to go home and get some rest.
I guess that’s what I write, little stories about humanity. And connection. Or disconnection. Hopefully with a little humor, a pinch of poignancy, and a shadow of familiarity thrown in for good measure.
It’s good to be here.