The truth is, some of you come here for the food. That’s wonderful; I’m ever the nurturing feeder.
Some of you come for the pictures; you don’t want to cook, but you’d love a bite to eat with your eyes. That’s wonderful; I’m into food pornography as well.
Some of you come for a recipe. Because you need to feed your family. That’s wonderful; I need to feed my family of four (Daniel), too.
Some of you come because you think I’m funny. First, thank you, but really, my friends and family are rolling on the floor at the very mention of anyone finding me funny; I’m…eccentric, they’d tell you.
Some of you come because you think I’m weird. I couldn’t agree more. That’s [in some way] wonderful.
And some of you, well some of you, come because I poke holes in my lightbox life and if you get close enough, you can press an eye up and peek through.
What matters is that you come.
And I write.
And I like the sharing-my-life-and-however-inane-thoughts- part, a world more than the food-part.
Because the funny? It’s just fun.
The fluff? It’s just puffy.
And the pictures? They just let me feel like a junior professional photographer. And you know how I love that.
But the words… they flow out my fingertips with feeling and purpose and the most tremendous stream of passion. I can feel my bones and muscles and all the veins that run through me expand and grow, upward and outward, as I write. I can sense that whatever it is that I’m doing on Saturday mornings when Daniel is humming beside me mid-dream, whatever it is that sounds clickety-click-click-click and sometimes fails to save…it is worthwhile.
When I force myself to sit alone and articulate a floating thought, I feel more. I use words I’d never think to use in everyday conversation. I mis-create metaphor and simile. I personify chocolate. I make sentences of a word. Two words. A phrase.
I ask myself more questions.
And in turn, I get more answers. When I press a pen to paper, I am grieving in a way I never could at twelve. Never knew how at sixteen.
I’m exploring and discovering and traveling, if only at the kitchen table.
Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes I don’t want to write another post, another word. Sometimes I think my life would be better never doing it again. But then I realize, as I do right now, that when I’m just here, writing, I’m in therapy. The therapy that never worked in person. The therapy that always felt forced and disappointing in real time, gets heartened here.
What does that mean to you?
How does that make you feel?
Maybe here, in this online space, I’ve found a big comfy couch I can lie on.
And maybe you’ve become the therapist?