It's time to fess up to living in the closet with my "bloggette". What does it entail, I wonder, in order to claim oneself real blogger? Whatever the rules, my feeling is that you gotta start somewhere, and maybe start yet again.
I've dozens of partially filled journals, pages with photos dragged into Mac's "Pages" about Mi Mama, down-home, road trips, and writer's block. There are countless bits of paper around my house and purse, scribbled with accounts of ideas, adventures, dreams, some poetry and heartbreak. The later two usually squeezed themselves out when, in my youth, spewing passion and drama offered some form of release. Not to worry, I'll spare you those. (oops, I lied) Then again, maybe I won't spare those bits. Maybe the spewing will take on a life of it's own and spew away.
Then, there are some "little articles", or vignettes ('cause I love saying the word), and daydreams which are mainly based on hopeful facts, and lots of perceived magic.
I see magic everywhere. Especially on long strolls with my dog, "Little-Little". He's a powerhouse --- all 7 1/2 pounds of curiosity and machismo. He came into my life to heal my heart, and to teach me ... many things. And, to let me love him. I'll have more to say about all that another time. Two enormous gifts, among the many he brings, are joy and innocence.
As I settle in here and become familiar with the "how-to'" of blogging and posting, I look forward to gathering some of those scribbled bits and pieces and pull myself together all in one basket.
Hooray! That squeaky closet door has cracked itself open.
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