Long ago I wanted to be a writer, but life took a different path. As I went in that direction, blogs were just starting to take shape and hold as a major literary outlet. I have known for years that I need to participate, but just thinking about it stresses me out. "It should be easy for me," I have told myself, in bed, after looking up pictures of domesticated foxes on Pinterest, for hours. (They are really cute). Unfortunately, all my attempts have felt hollow and forced, lacking a reason to be and weighed down by "insights" that probably should have been kept to myself. I once wrote about how I thought that the cityscape below a landing plane at night looks like a starry sky. Then I didn't write anything again for six month.
That's not to say I have not been taking notes all along.
I recently moved and unpacked the journals I have been keeping since I started to travel to these places in search of cultural artifacts to turn into jewelry. They make me nostalgic in that Bon Iver music way. They are full of lovely moments from cafes in Portugal to being quarantined in China, and they won't ever return except for in torn, ink-smudged pages.
But, as I read through them, I fall in love with what I have tried to do, which is to capture a simple moment in time to be appreciated for the fact that it happened.
In that spirit, my "blog" will now be a journal entry. Once a week, I am going to flip to a page, and write it out and offer my footnotes and maybe share what I produced from that voyage.
Or I can tell you about landing in a plane at night...