I lay in the middle of the a large field, a sky overcast full to bursting yelling down on me. I stared at it, waiting for it's mighty waters to fall upon me, and fell to my knees in a sea of dandelions. I looked desperately for the sun in the clouds, where it was nowhere to be found. With three deep breaths, I fell back onto the grass content.
To imagine blogging as an empty meadow where you're on your own, brings such bliss back to doing it. There's no one to please, no standard to tell yourself to meet, no one to create for but yourself. Doing out of love, creating out of love and not stress or angst. Just love.
I don't know if what I've been experiencing the last few weeks is as much writer's block as a lack of passion for blogging. The fire in me was subdued for a period of time, and I think I've finally come to the conclusion why. I wasn't inspired anymore, because I wouldn't let myself be. They say comparison is the thief of joy, but it quickly turned into the thief of my fire. I had to very much reflect on myself, what I intend to do and what I want to do. I was, and still am, constantly comparing myself to others as if there is such a thing as "good" and "bad" and they aren't just fish in a sea of grey.
Proclaiming my self the most talented person I know would not only be arrogant, but a bold faced lie. I'm not, but I am the only me I know. I am the only person I know who thinks, and articulates that way I do. This isn't unique to me. Everything is expressed uniquely by that person, and unlike anyone else. Such is the beauty of uniqueness.
I worried about how other's perceived what I did. I worried about the judgements of friends and family who have found this space, and the complete strangers that stumble across it everyday. I worried about the snap judgements of the talented who may stumble across this space and collectively come together to laugh at my inadequate attempts at being a "writer".
I fell into a despair of worry. A lot of worry.
But I've come to realize doing what you love isn't a glorious path. It's a street riddled with pot holes, self doubt, traffic and obnoxious people. But because it's your love, it's worth the tears. Every single one.
Love is not a victory march. It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.