What would you promise if there was a chance – a chance like a shot in the dark left by million light years of separation – but if there was in fact a chance that someone might be listening? What would you promise from the security of a screen and the distance of a desk?
True confession: I’ve never really liked blogs. I never really saw the point, until of course I saw the point. I never understood who cared, until I caught myself red-handed, perusing the musings of complete strangers, engrossed in the type of writing where I cared little about content and fell effortlessly in love with the rhythm of the words. I hope to find those words. That grace. I would never call myself a writer. I haven’t called myself an artist. But I’ve made things of metal and here I am putting words on a page. You judge.
I suppose it’s been a long time coming. Years of longing for the opportunity, adventures spent wondering what if. What if someone else knew what I was seeing? More than just the letter home, but a true testimonial of things that I’ve witnessed for all the world to see; if of course they wanted to. The little sweets in life’s corners, the terrors and frustrations here and there. What if no one wanted to see? Not that everything has been worth witnessing, but certainly some of it has. What if I was writing for more than my own pleasure, more than my own eye? There is something wholly unnerving about flinging yourself into the universe in a way as permanent as an essay or a photograph. Maybe no one will read it. Likely no one will read it. But I wrote it. I took it. It’s there, and they could. The presence of possibility is pressure enough. What little pressure there is in a promise. What privilege, how shallow to have so little pressure in one’s life that I find it in a promise to myself. And if it ever becomes anything other than pleasure? Well then I suppose there is something to be said for discipline, for rhythm. And what if I have nothing to say? What if there are already enough words in the universe? But nobody throws opportunity in your lap and I won’t know until I try. Mostly I’m just sick of being told to put my money where my mouth is.
So this I promise (to whomever might be listening and because it’s true by the presence of sheer possibility): One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days of ramblings. No adventure greater than every day life. Just fetch with a dog, dinners at home, wine, and walking, long runs and ramblings. Then again, adventure will probably rear its head somewhere. I hope it does. Bring on the adventure.
See what we will……