First, I want to make it clear that I'm no stranger to blogging, but my public life blog is much more based on my calling in life. This blog is, for all intents and purposes, my journal. (Insert put-opon sigh here. No, louder. Thanks, that's much better.)
Here's the thing: I used to keep a diary when I was a young girl; the kind with the lock on it that would not have withstood any kind of forced entry by one of my three brothers. It was all very Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew. And I have so just dated myself, but that's okay (see blog name).
In my twenties, I was much more into pouring my heart into poetry; I've got the pastel flower print-covered, lined paper journal to prove it. In my thirties, I was intrigued by the idea of journaling and inspired by Oprah Winfrey's addication (that's addiction and dedication combined into one, multi-purpose word) to it, plus my talk therapist (bless her; she saved my life) wanted me to use it as a tool. I just couldn't/wouldn't get into it, in spite of the variety of beautiful journals I bought for that purpose.
Now I'm in my forties, and I have not one, but two mentors insisting that journaling is THE way to get past what is blocking my full-potential growth in all areas of life. They want me to journal about all the stuff that goes on in my head.
Let me tell you, that scares the living hell out of me, because putting what sometimes crosses my minds into books that the people I know and love could potentially get their eyes on is unthinkable; unthinkable, I tell you! Not to mention, my hand would totally cramp up and I would go through way too many pens.
Then, it hit me like a hugely cushioned, wafer thin brick that wouldn't do any damage to my head (I need my head, you see): I could create a blog in relative anonymity and dump my thoughts there; journal to my mentors' hearts' content (and maybe to mine) and do me some good in the process.
That's what this is. Welcome!
Here's the thing: I used to keep a diary when I was a young girl; the kind with the lock on it that would not have withstood any kind of forced entry by one of my three brothers. It was all very Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew. And I have so just dated myself, but that's okay (see blog name).
In my twenties, I was much more into pouring my heart into poetry; I've got the pastel flower print-covered, lined paper journal to prove it. In my thirties, I was intrigued by the idea of journaling and inspired by Oprah Winfrey's addication (that's addiction and dedication combined into one, multi-purpose word) to it, plus my talk therapist (bless her; she saved my life) wanted me to use it as a tool. I just couldn't/wouldn't get into it, in spite of the variety of beautiful journals I bought for that purpose.
Let me tell you, that scares the living hell out of me, because putting what sometimes crosses my minds into books that the people I know and love could potentially get their eyes on is unthinkable; unthinkable, I tell you! Not to mention, my hand would totally cramp up and I would go through way too many pens.
Then, it hit me like a hugely cushioned, wafer thin brick that wouldn't do any damage to my head (I need my head, you see): I could create a blog in relative anonymity and dump my thoughts there; journal to my mentors' hearts' content (and maybe to mine) and do me some good in the process.
That's what this is. Welcome!
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