I'm not gonna lie to y'all, January just about pulled me under.
I'm supposed to be one of the funny bloggers, I think? Maybe over time I've built that reputation, that expectation? You tell me. But I'm not in a very funny place right now, and every day I open up this box to write something and what comes out flatly refuses to giggle, or snort, or even, sometimes, crack a smile.
We've had a lot of bad news in FriedOkra-land, and despite the fact that I can feel the hope and even see the joy in much of what January rudely shoved into our lives, I struggle internally to pinch and pull a glistening drop of my own brand of sun out through the pallid, cloud-filtered light of my overcast heart. And the sunless actuality of the month gone past my window has made basking in the blahs seem prescribed.
Yet my hands crave the keyboard and my mind begs to swoosh out onto the screen in a quiet, downward-home flow, like a winter-cold mountain stream against smooth stones, finding its way out in clinging gravity-falls to join a larger pool of understanding and connection. So I write naked posts, like this one, and I post them, and then I un-post them, because the vulnerability terrifies me, and the fear of disappointing sucks my breath away. Hours later, the SAVE AS DRAFT button saves my life. I feel an aching disconnect, though, even in the moment my lungs re-inflate, from the this-is-me me I've hoped to become in this space.
Sometimes I go here: "I think I'll start an alter-ego blog, where I can let out all of these things that aren't of sun and shine and pastel-blue, porch-swing, sing-song chatter." (A place where perhaps even I won't view my dark days as down-fall.)
And then I go here: "One day I'll just courageously put all of me in one place, and then wrap my own arms around me, to hold me all-together."