It’s been nearly two months since I’ve posted. That’s not something I’m proud of, but I do acknowledge it.
I’ve tried to write. I have a post half-finished here (one that will likely never be published actually) and I’ve written countless others during a commute (sadly due to my accent, disconnected thoughts and colorful language my dictation apps have been a bit sub par in capturing my thoughts at the moment, more often leaving me staring at a screen wondering “WHAT was I talking about?!”)
The facts are these: Things got messy for a spell.
None of the scenarios I faced was uncommon, yet each took a toll. The result of which was a substantial amount of questioning, and self-examination…from the grandiose of ideals to trivial undertakings.
The cessation of posts was largely because of that. It was compelling to work though each matter in words and phrases, leaving them online as though it were some sort of homework. But, I knew that was never an option for me. I feared if I began to write, then thoughts would trickle out of that Pandora’s box and weave their way into my words.
Others throw their life onto their pages, and I commend them for their honesty and fearlessness. I compartmentalized, and there are certain areas not open to the vast spectator filled internet. I’d much prefer to air grievances, whine, curse and confide sevrets over a cup of tea, a bottle of wine, or even a well timed text.
I still don’t have things sorted out, but I’ve resolved myself to the fact that: that IS a part of life. (In fact if I had the answers I’d be penning a book to be published, not posting a blog!)
During the infinite questioning, I even wondered if I was Done with cooking. The hobby had often been my refuge and I toiled with the idea that it no longer held the same magnitude for me. I got my answer a few weeks ago.
I was miling about in my grocery store, I turned into the produce section, and I froze.
Everything looked good. All synapsis were firing trying to think of recipes or ideas for new dishes, and logic trying to argue that if in fact I DID buy all I wanted, much would go to waste.
It was one of those instances that are only symbolic to the person they happen to, and can likely make you look like a fool to onlookers, or even those you try to explain it to.
I felt calm, and excited all at once, like a weight was lifted. It felt like things were righting themselves again.
For the life of me I can’t tell you what I cooked that night. Then again it doesn’t really matter, does it?