Inspired

I tentatively placed my hands on the keyboard and willed myself to let go of the story that had been hiding in the recluse of my mind for months.

I watched as the letters under my fingers transformed into words on my screen, pouring out thoughts and telling a story I had never before shared.

I dared, much like I am now, to let the story unfold on its own, and present itself in its own way. Even I was not fully aware what direction it was taking.

I edited slightly, because when my mind speaks is doesn’t always remember to spell.

I published. I linked. I waited.

I held expectations no higher than a hope that this would be a prequel to my whole story and that it might allow me to connect with more readers in this wonderful blogging world.

And then it came. The brave. The transparent. The inspiring. The different perspectives. The outpouring of responses on a story I thought was my own.

I was amazed and humbled to discover that this story is not just my story. Parts of this reality had been experienced and felt and endured and coped with by many. People shared pieces of their own times of loss, their own times of difficulty, their own perspectives. People came here, to this small little corner of the internet, and shared their hearts.

To say I am honored is an understatement. I never knew that a simple post with a picture of a pumpkin would open the amazing dialogue created on that page. I cherish these bits of your lives you so generously intertwined with mine and savor them as though they are a decadent dessert. (Of chocolate, of course.)

This blogging world is still new to me. I am not even aware of all the things I do not know, as I have just started to climb this ladder and do not have the vision to see more than the next step in front of me. I am in awe of this community.

I have been lucky enough to find bloggers whose words float over the screen like a melody, whose descriptions entrance me, whose honesty both surprises and compels me. I have been lucky enough to read stories of people who break down the barriers of convention and instead allow the private of their lives to dance freely into the public. I have been lucky enough to find bloggers whose kindness surpasses many of those I know in “real life.”

Everyone has a story. It is what makes life so tragically beautiful. There is such artistry here in the intertwining of these hearts and voices. I see slivers and pieces of diverse stories slowly thread over each other as they weave their way into a part of the tapestry of shared experiences.

One of the reasons I started a blog was to finally share the birth story that I have never told, in full, to anyone in the past two and a half years since it happened. I have carried it, mostly alone, as I have walked this path of new motherhood. I started a blog to find you. To hear these stories. To know that I am not alone.

And to tell you that you are not alone either.

Thank you for allowing me the opportunity to share a brief overview and summary of my story. Thank you for not making me feel like I am crazy to have these musings. Thank you for giving me the courage to begin to share my birth story. I will tell you all of it one day.

Thank you for making me feel inspired.

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Lost Pieces

It’s funny how it’s two and a half years later and I’m still trying to pick up pieces of myself.

I lost so many of the pieces of who I thought I was over these years. So many pieces that I thought completed the puzzle of who I am. But life is nothing if not a constant exercise in change. And so I change. I adapt. I loose pieces. I find others. I try to string together a complete image of this woman who stares at me in the mirror.

Today I found some old pieces. Pieces I thought were lost long ago like old toys hidden under the couch or receded into cracks in floor boards. Pieces that brought tears to my eyes because I remember them. It was like reuniting with an old friend.

Today I dropped my little boy off at school. When he first started school this fall, I didn’t know how to be apart from him. I waited in the parking lot for him to come home.

Since then, I have progressed. I have used my time to run errands, and tackle the grocery store and mopping. I have sat and people watched while sipping a latte. I have talked on the phone to my best friend. I have worked out. I have blogged.

But this morning, I found some parts of what used to make me. I listened to the soundtrack of Wicked The Broadway Musical. And I sang along and smiled and remembered why that used to be such a big passion of mine. I felt inspired. I found myself at the mall. I entered a grown up store with grown up clothes that would fit my now grown up figure and did not have a trace of children’s paraphernalia. I tried on shirt from the clearance rack and let my hands drape over the luxurious fabric of items that have no place in my daily life of dirt and ketchup. I tried on two shirts that actually flattered me and I smiled because I remembered that I used to look beautiful and turn heads. My now go-to outfit of yoga pants and t-shirts doesn’t do that. I splurged on a shirt that made me feel beautiful. And I cringed at the register, because I don’t remember the last time I spent so much money on myself.

And as I blared the Wicked soundtrack again on my way home, I let tears fall and thoughts form and rushed inside to find a home for them here.

My life is so different than it used to be. My reflection always surprises me when a mirror suddenly appears in my view. But there are pieces of me that are still the same. It was so nice to find some of them this morning and reawaken beauty and inspiration and indulgence within my world that has become devoted to my child’s innocence.

It was nice to find some lost pieces.

Unexpected Gifts

Sometimes the thoughts in my mind are so intense and feverish and many that they threaten to trample over each other until they erupt from my fingertips onto the page.

Sometimes the darkness in my mind contrasts so sharply with the bright white of the screen that I can not organize a thought.

Sometimes the blank canvas in my mind so is so accurately reflected in the blank canvas of the screen that I hate to dirty it with the stain of intimate thoughts.

But always, I find this space to be calming. Always waiting for me to come back and fill it. Always there to let me explore the collage of thoughts floating in my mind, tearing through to the surface, gasping for the first breath of life, when I type them here and give them a voice.

Always, here, I find myself at peace. In the solitude of writing, in the solitude of self exploration, where I allow my world to be quiet and listen to myself. Always, here, I find a new piece of me. Always, here, I discover inspiration.

I listen to myself most often at night, when the house is dark except for the faint light coming in through the window. When the world is quiet except for the sounds of my husband and my son breathing next to me in bed. Where my cat curls up at my feet and my breath falls in tune with the people I cherish. It is then that I can stop, and listen, and learn things that I already knew, but never took the time to process. In these moments I am at peace. And in these moments I can reflect here.

This blog is my place of peace for my thoughts and my inner stillness. Listening to the words that so desperately accumulate in my mind and then pour onto this page has inspired me. Giving myself this place of solitude to write and reflect and grow has turned into an unexpected gift.

Have you given yourself an unexpected gift?