An Intricately Woven Tapestry

I have realized many things about myself over the past 9 months; some are new revelations and others were always there lurking behind denial. All in all, this is the year that I grew up. Two kids, a husband, and a career could not force me into adulthood...but this year could...and did.

I hate to announce that I am officially back into the world of blogging because in all honesty my self inflicted sabbatical came about as a result of my need to be utterly honest, and I found that the only place I could do this was in a private journal. Journaling has provided me with a way to organize some of my more chaotic thoughts and to perform a ritualistic form of my own self-therapy. Less profound than James Joyce but with the same stream of consciousness type of writing, I have worshiped my journal.

The other evening after discussing with a dear friend the wonders and hidden evils of social networking in the world of Facebook, I set back to read through all the journal entries that I have penned over the years. Since they go back to the fifth grade, it took some time. [I know. Where is the connection between Facebook and my journal. Be patient. I am getting there.] I came to the conclusion that although less public, less scrutinized, and less likely to be used as a basis of comparison in all aspects of my life, my journal lacked connectivity. Albeit a lovely momentary band aid for some of my more throbbing emotions, I was not taking the time to connect and perhaps learn the greater meaning from some of the emotional journeys I was undertaking with my pen in hand. In other words, I felt the need to head back to a more public place (although since my absence, I am hoping less so) to force me to organize my thoughts and give more life to my experiences.


MY OWN PAST PERSONAL EXPERIENCE SHOWS THAT FOR ME AND I AM IN NO WAY SUGGESTING OR IMPLYING FOR EVERYONE, the equation is as follows:

Public Platforms + Personal Platitudes = Disaster
Private Platform + Personal Ponderings & Probings = Self Discovery

(Okay! So, although somewhat convoluted...therein lies the Facebook connection.)

With this equation in mind, today my lovely Turkish rug arrived in the mail from Dubai. Trey's exquisite taste was evident in every detail. The richness and vibrancy of the color, the soft cushy plushness, the ancient tribal patterns, the delicate braided fringe, all whispered to me to abandon myself upon it's weft and waft to sob my heart clean.

I cried because my husband was the last person to touch it. I cried for myself and my losses. I cried for my family that was and what is to be. I cried for my sons. I cried because everything seemed to be woven together into one huge ball of pain living in the pit of my stomach.

Since my parents pending divorce, my son's diagnosis, and my husband's departure I have yet to have a good cry.

It felt wonderful.

And, I wanted to record it here in a more public place.

Just for today.

I am not going to worry about how I may feel about it tomorrow.