First Posts

I love finding new blogs of interest (or returning to my favorite old clicks), scrolling down the right side of the screen, perusing the blog archives and post titles as I search for the very first post of the blog I'm currently reading.  It's so fun for me to see the reason, the motivation, the seed which flowered and became your blog.  Blogs aren't ever completed works and it's so fascinating to read the progressive snippets of writers' lives, to speculate about why you chose to write about this post or upload this photo, to guess at the before and the after of the events you share.  I heartily enjoy comparing whatever post I'm reading to your initial post, trying to decide how or if this post fits into the picture of what you wrote your blog might be.  I love reading your blogs--so much!

So, today I went back and read my first post, trying to decide if I've kept on track with what I thought my blog would become.  I'm not sure that I quite knew what I was going to write about  when I wrote it.  I had an inchoate idea that I'd be writing big thoughts about poetry and philosophy and music and literature and how these things help me understand and love and accept divinity in my life--that my blog would be my shrine to the arts and why they are so needed in making the lives of any human being more related to the sacred, maybe.  It's not though; I think it's become a place where I describe small moments of revelation and beauty and love and anger and peace, times when I'm surprised by joy, those moments which unveil the confusion and beauty and clarity of this being that is me.

I look more sharply for those kinds of every day epiphanies than I did before deciding to keep a blog.  I don't write about them every day, but I do find them:  a funny joke lightening up a heavy rehearsal; a wobbly roan-colored foal nuzzling its mother on HWY 89; civiche at the Sonora Grill; watering the rosebushes in the front yard.  These moments are the petals on the flower of my life, those beautiful times where I'm unafraid to pick myself, to revel in the glee of living, to thank God for reminding me that small holinesses are, more often than not, so much more moving than excessive pageantries.