It's all my daughter's inspiration. This blog, I mean. Because she just started a new blog that I absolutely love, she has inspired me to do the same.
Oh, it's not that I didn't already have this idea. I've had a desire, a need, for a long time to have a blog that's just for me. A soul blog. But she was the match that lit a fire under my butt to turn on my computer and get started.
So what's the point of having yet another blog when I already have umpteen?
I am a mix of introvert and extrovert. My introvert side needs natural space and quiet solitude to survive and thrive and recharge. I'll try to explain. Let's visualize a scene we might call "Introvert Heaven." Imagine yourself curled up in your bed on a cool, spring morning. You're tucked under a cotton comforter with a soft cotton pillow under your head and you're hugging another pillow under the covers. As you snuggle in your bed you catch an intermittent waft of soft, gentle, fragrant breeze through the screen of your bedroom window. You have nothing to do, no appointments, no one who's going to call you and demand, request, or even hint that you should do anything for them. You are free to relax and curl up with your favorite book. And of course, you've got your notebook and your favorite pen (with your favorite color ink--mine's purple) handy, just in case you come across any quotes during your reading that cannot afford to be ignored or forgotten, and of course you have a mug of hot brew nearby on your nightstand (mine contains no caffeine, yours is as you like) doctored up in whatever way you like (I like mine with half-n-half and without sugar). You have the freedom to stay in your pj's all day if you want, and your computer is close by in case you feel like writing. Your phone is turned off. Now in such an ideal environment, you might want to tell somebody about it. Or you might want to always remember this day. So you write about it.
There's another scene you might be able to relate to. Imagine yourself in a situation where something really traumatic happens and you don't know which way to turn, where to go, who to talk to (I could have written "whom" but I am purposely satisfying my need to use incorrect grammar in this blog just for fun and to prove the point that although I do proofreading and editing, and although I am completely and utterly OCD about spelling, I am not completely OCD about pronunciation, punctuation and grammar, and because it's more fun not to care) or what to say. Others are depending on you to deliver and you can't give them what they want or expect. What do you do? What if you do the best thing you know how, and others end up criticizing you for making a bad judgment? What if you decide prematurely and your decision turns out wrong and you end up hurting someone as a result of your decision? What to do? So you write about it.
Or you've just been through a hellish pregnancy and although you've kept your chin up admirably during the all-day-sickness that went on and on and on for nine months, you valiantly face your decision to give birth at home with the help of a midwife. (Later, just to add to the drama, you throw up AFTER the baby is born!) You remember how the labor went on and on and on ad infinitum until you prayed to God with all the sincerity of a dying woman, "Lord, You threaded an elephant through the eye of a needle, no problem. If You did that, You can easily make this baby come out through that teeny hole down there!" You were about to lose it when somebody got a brilliant idea to put you in a warm shower, and almost immediately, you finished dilating and your stressed-out purple baby finally emerged from her 280-day captivity! Oh God, THANK YOU for letting this baby come out alive! Your midwife lovingly places the baby on your chest. The baby is exhausted and wants to sleep, but you want to give that little worn-out infant a chance to prove to the world that she knows instinctively how to suckle. When you put that little mouth to your breast and feel the amazing thrill of a tiny newborn sucking your nipple, you know it was all worth it. When you see her tiny cheek muscles flexing as she drinks, and you hear the soft little sounds of swallowing that are so, so satisfying to a nursing mother, you know it was all worth it. And when your baby looks in your eyes and you KNOW SHE CAN SEE YOU and you both deeply connect, you've got to tell somebody about it RIGHT THEN. So you write about it.
Or you might want to share funny stuff that your kids said when they were toddlers, like "Pita, you're hairless!" (spoken by my adorable little son Nitai when he was being entertained by his joker of a father. Obviously, he meant that his dad was hilarious.) He also used to go across Rough and Ready Road to pick fresh figs off the neighbor's tree. One day, he was hungry and bored, so I suggested he go have some figs. "No. I hate figs." "Really? I thought you loved them," I returned. "I just discovered that I hate them," was his surprising answer.
You may want to write about an epiphany you had at some point in your life. Like after my head and face went through the windshield when I was fifteen. Fifteen is when you want to go to school looking good, not all scarred and bruised from a car accident. But scarred and bruised was how I had to go to school after being out for a couple of weeks due to being in the hospital after a car wreck. My face and head were stitched up in several places and I looked like Frankenstein. But I felt somehow relieved of some karmic debt. At the time, I had never heard the word "karma" but I experienced a kind of liberation at that moment, walking through the halls of my high school, watching as my fellow students stared in amazement at my changed face. It was empowering to see how I could do all the normal things I was used to doing, but with an ugly face. I felt that it was a blessing from God to be put through this experience of getting my face and head torn up, having to get stitched up at the hospital, going to school with my face badly scarred, then having to go back to the hospital for plastic surgery on my scars a few months later (that was more painful than the initial cuts and stitching job!). My Dad always blamed himself for causing his little girl such suffering, but I didn't look at it that way at all. It was a turning point in my life at which I began to see beyond the ephemerality of temporary bodies and how they look on the outside, to a deeper level, where the soul, who is eternally beautiful, resides.
There are so many, many possible scenarios in life that one might want to write about. These are just a few of mine.
Always wishing you well,
Phalini
Oh, it's not that I didn't already have this idea. I've had a desire, a need, for a long time to have a blog that's just for me. A soul blog. But she was the match that lit a fire under my butt to turn on my computer and get started.
So what's the point of having yet another blog when I already have umpteen?
I am a mix of introvert and extrovert. My introvert side needs natural space and quiet solitude to survive and thrive and recharge. I'll try to explain. Let's visualize a scene we might call "Introvert Heaven." Imagine yourself curled up in your bed on a cool, spring morning. You're tucked under a cotton comforter with a soft cotton pillow under your head and you're hugging another pillow under the covers. As you snuggle in your bed you catch an intermittent waft of soft, gentle, fragrant breeze through the screen of your bedroom window. You have nothing to do, no appointments, no one who's going to call you and demand, request, or even hint that you should do anything for them. You are free to relax and curl up with your favorite book. And of course, you've got your notebook and your favorite pen (with your favorite color ink--mine's purple) handy, just in case you come across any quotes during your reading that cannot afford to be ignored or forgotten, and of course you have a mug of hot brew nearby on your nightstand (mine contains no caffeine, yours is as you like) doctored up in whatever way you like (I like mine with half-n-half and without sugar). You have the freedom to stay in your pj's all day if you want, and your computer is close by in case you feel like writing. Your phone is turned off. Now in such an ideal environment, you might want to tell somebody about it. Or you might want to always remember this day. So you write about it.
There's another scene you might be able to relate to. Imagine yourself in a situation where something really traumatic happens and you don't know which way to turn, where to go, who to talk to (I could have written "whom" but I am purposely satisfying my need to use incorrect grammar in this blog just for fun and to prove the point that although I do proofreading and editing, and although I am completely and utterly OCD about spelling, I am not completely OCD about pronunciation, punctuation and grammar, and because it's more fun not to care) or what to say. Others are depending on you to deliver and you can't give them what they want or expect. What do you do? What if you do the best thing you know how, and others end up criticizing you for making a bad judgment? What if you decide prematurely and your decision turns out wrong and you end up hurting someone as a result of your decision? What to do? So you write about it.
Or you've just been through a hellish pregnancy and although you've kept your chin up admirably during the all-day-sickness that went on and on and on for nine months, you valiantly face your decision to give birth at home with the help of a midwife. (Later, just to add to the drama, you throw up AFTER the baby is born!) You remember how the labor went on and on and on ad infinitum until you prayed to God with all the sincerity of a dying woman, "Lord, You threaded an elephant through the eye of a needle, no problem. If You did that, You can easily make this baby come out through that teeny hole down there!" You were about to lose it when somebody got a brilliant idea to put you in a warm shower, and almost immediately, you finished dilating and your stressed-out purple baby finally emerged from her 280-day captivity! Oh God, THANK YOU for letting this baby come out alive! Your midwife lovingly places the baby on your chest. The baby is exhausted and wants to sleep, but you want to give that little worn-out infant a chance to prove to the world that she knows instinctively how to suckle. When you put that little mouth to your breast and feel the amazing thrill of a tiny newborn sucking your nipple, you know it was all worth it. When you see her tiny cheek muscles flexing as she drinks, and you hear the soft little sounds of swallowing that are so, so satisfying to a nursing mother, you know it was all worth it. And when your baby looks in your eyes and you KNOW SHE CAN SEE YOU and you both deeply connect, you've got to tell somebody about it RIGHT THEN. So you write about it.
Or you might want to share funny stuff that your kids said when they were toddlers, like "Pita, you're hairless!" (spoken by my adorable little son Nitai when he was being entertained by his joker of a father. Obviously, he meant that his dad was hilarious.) He also used to go across Rough and Ready Road to pick fresh figs off the neighbor's tree. One day, he was hungry and bored, so I suggested he go have some figs. "No. I hate figs." "Really? I thought you loved them," I returned. "I just discovered that I hate them," was his surprising answer.
You may want to write about an epiphany you had at some point in your life. Like after my head and face went through the windshield when I was fifteen. Fifteen is when you want to go to school looking good, not all scarred and bruised from a car accident. But scarred and bruised was how I had to go to school after being out for a couple of weeks due to being in the hospital after a car wreck. My face and head were stitched up in several places and I looked like Frankenstein. But I felt somehow relieved of some karmic debt. At the time, I had never heard the word "karma" but I experienced a kind of liberation at that moment, walking through the halls of my high school, watching as my fellow students stared in amazement at my changed face. It was empowering to see how I could do all the normal things I was used to doing, but with an ugly face. I felt that it was a blessing from God to be put through this experience of getting my face and head torn up, having to get stitched up at the hospital, going to school with my face badly scarred, then having to go back to the hospital for plastic surgery on my scars a few months later (that was more painful than the initial cuts and stitching job!). My Dad always blamed himself for causing his little girl such suffering, but I didn't look at it that way at all. It was a turning point in my life at which I began to see beyond the ephemerality of temporary bodies and how they look on the outside, to a deeper level, where the soul, who is eternally beautiful, resides.
There are so many, many possible scenarios in life that one might want to write about. These are just a few of mine.
Always wishing you well,
Phalini
Yay, Mata!!! I love it!!!! :D :D :D
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