collections and reflections

{Collections and Reflections...}

Seashells and painted stones line our windowsills, decorating chipped paint and smudged panes. Touchstones of quiet, reminders of waves and creativity... 

I've been thinking about how I used to write so much, online. About how blogging has changed, and I wonder if that's good or bad, or it just is. I'm reserving my words for the novel I'm working on, and focusing my energy there... but with that comes space from here, and the longer I go between posts the harder it is to write them. When I was writing daily on the blog, years ago, it became a habit. And words flowed more freely, and I didn't think so much before I wrote. 

Now I'm stuck in my head when it comes to sharing my writing here. I share bits and bobbles on Instagram, and they fill the space for writing publicly... for the most part. But there's still a longing for wide open spaces that blog posts offer. So I don't know. Stuck in my head. I think about all of the people who wrote the blogs I connected with years ago, and so many of them just stopped writing. Stopped putting things out there, stopped connecting in this vulnerable way. 

And that's the thing, when you're out of the practice of being vulnerable in a certain way, it takes a long time to get back there. To say, here I am. This is my offering. I don't care what you think, I'm here. 

Because sometimes we really do care what people think, regardless of how much we know their opinions of us don't truly matter. 

Maybe that's what this post is today, me dipping my toes into vulnerability once again. I'm here. Showing up. Trying once again to make a habit of connecting, opening up, spilling over and getting uncomfortable. What else is the point of blogging, anyway? 

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