Seasons.

 

 

The beauty of a personal blog is that it’s allowed to be whatever you want it to be. There are no rules to follow, no faux pas to avoid, no one way to be. This little speck in the corner of the vast internet started, rather unplanned, in my little bungalow kitchen one day. It started with my discovery of a passion for food, as I learned how to be a wife and homemaker. It has followed me through my journey to a new home in a different state, nudged me on my transformation into a wannabe foodie, waited for months at a time through the busy miracle that is motherhood. It has evolved from a record of my learning curve in the kitchen into a chronicle of my discoveries in a healthier diet. I believe a truly worthy endeavor is always growing, constantly changing. Life is made up of seasons, always changing. And so, I’ve entered a new one. A new baby, a home to call our own, a shifting of priorities. Suddenly I find my thoughts consumed by child rearing and motherhood, with a little less inclination towards writing posts with recipes. Understand, I don’t intend to stop posting recipes completely. I still love cooking, and sharing that love with others. But I’ve also always enjoyed writing, and have recently rediscovered that dusty love. I feel like digging it out of the attic, and giving it a bit of a polish. I’ve been inspired by other bloggers, by their daily grit and grind that they share with the world. By their faith and tenacity as they plod through life. I feel like taking advantage of the flexibility of a blog, and writing what I feel like, when I feel like it. The crusts and the crumbs of my life. A recipe today, a remodel post tomorrow, a reflection on parenting next week. I face a wide open space, waiting to be filled with whatever I desire. And I like that challenge.


 

I’m not a spotlight kind of girl. I’m shy, and quiet, and a bit reserved. Oh, I like a good razzing between friends, and a spirited board game with the best of them. I love hosting friends and family and cherishing moments together. But at my soul, in my heart of hearts, I’m a quiet evening with my man, fire blazing, hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea kind of girl. That’s when I’m most blissful. So, I don’t write for a spotlight, imagined or otherwise. I don’t write for others. I write for me. If not a single person (besides my soul mate-we’re bonded as one, so he counts as me) reads this blog, I’d be just as satisfied in writing it as if a thousand had read it. Which is good, because a thousand people definitely won’t be reading this. No, I write because there is an itch in my soul. An urge, somewhere deep inside of my being, to craft my thoughts into words and inscribe them, preserve them, and make meaning from them. It brings me peace to take the whirling dervish in my mind and put him to rest.  
Much of my writing will never even see the light. It will never make it past the parchment of my mind, where it is scribbled in invisible ink for me alone. But some of it does.  That bit is what is written here. Humbly posted for the world to see, if it cares, or to ignore if it doesn’t.