Hey there, Blog.
God, has it been a long time. So, so much has happened since last I wrote. So much has changed.
Being back "in school" this fall as an instructor rather than a student, I am no longer required to write, and so have fallen out of the habit, save commenting on students' papers and drafting what amounts to little more than technical instructions whenever I have to write assignment guidelines. And, much as it pains me, I admit it: I miss "school writing." I miss reading and responding to what I read and talking about what was read and what was written with my peers.
Yet here I am.
I haven't spoken to another human today. I have wanted to, ardently. And I think it's days like these--these quiet, profoundly self-filled days of reading and wanting and feeling such a profound sense of "lack"--that occasionally send me in search of a place where I feel heard.
And yet, if the past several months have taught me anything, it's that speaking can be dangerous. (Of course, silence, too, is often fraught; both actions carry so much weight. Christ, how powerful are these things, like fire and ice--each natural and beautiful and terrible in its own way).
What I guess I'm getting at is this: I miss having a reason to write. I miss writing and feeling like the words that traveled from my mind to my lips or to the page carried with them an intrinsic strength. I don't feel strong anymore. Instead, I feel sad at the loss of the confidence I once had in my own voice. I miss sharing that voice and feeling like someone else actually valued it and wanted to engage with it, to share and to question and to answer it.
And, yet again, here I am.
I now have a Master's degree, which is great, but there are perhaps more things I do not know now than I did when I began this most recent educational journey. But maybe that is the case for each journey of edification we undertake in this life--that which we set out to learn is rarely what we end up understanding.
So, newly edified in more ways than one, here I am. I believe I am in search, perhaps, not of a voice that was lost, but an altogether new one, full of fresh perspective and ideas worth sharing. (Of course, odds are that this quiet little corner of the internet will be the only place that will ever bare witness to this as-yet unfamiliar voice, but I figure here is as good a place as any. Better, maybe.)
And in the interest of pursuing "better" things, I shall leave you with a line written by an author far superior to myself which serves as the epigraph of the novel that is currently at rest upon my nightstand: "Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice" - E.M. Forster. The truth of these words sinks into me like an anchor into the ocean by the day; let us hope that life's bewilderment proves kind.
God, has it been a long time. So, so much has happened since last I wrote. So much has changed.
Being back "in school" this fall as an instructor rather than a student, I am no longer required to write, and so have fallen out of the habit, save commenting on students' papers and drafting what amounts to little more than technical instructions whenever I have to write assignment guidelines. And, much as it pains me, I admit it: I miss "school writing." I miss reading and responding to what I read and talking about what was read and what was written with my peers.
Yet here I am.
I haven't spoken to another human today. I have wanted to, ardently. And I think it's days like these--these quiet, profoundly self-filled days of reading and wanting and feeling such a profound sense of "lack"--that occasionally send me in search of a place where I feel heard.
And yet, if the past several months have taught me anything, it's that speaking can be dangerous. (Of course, silence, too, is often fraught; both actions carry so much weight. Christ, how powerful are these things, like fire and ice--each natural and beautiful and terrible in its own way).
What I guess I'm getting at is this: I miss having a reason to write. I miss writing and feeling like the words that traveled from my mind to my lips or to the page carried with them an intrinsic strength. I don't feel strong anymore. Instead, I feel sad at the loss of the confidence I once had in my own voice. I miss sharing that voice and feeling like someone else actually valued it and wanted to engage with it, to share and to question and to answer it.
And, yet again, here I am.
I now have a Master's degree, which is great, but there are perhaps more things I do not know now than I did when I began this most recent educational journey. But maybe that is the case for each journey of edification we undertake in this life--that which we set out to learn is rarely what we end up understanding.
So, newly edified in more ways than one, here I am. I believe I am in search, perhaps, not of a voice that was lost, but an altogether new one, full of fresh perspective and ideas worth sharing. (Of course, odds are that this quiet little corner of the internet will be the only place that will ever bare witness to this as-yet unfamiliar voice, but I figure here is as good a place as any. Better, maybe.)
And in the interest of pursuing "better" things, I shall leave you with a line written by an author far superior to myself which serves as the epigraph of the novel that is currently at rest upon my nightstand: "Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice" - E.M. Forster. The truth of these words sinks into me like an anchor into the ocean by the day; let us hope that life's bewilderment proves kind.
