There are so many blog posts that I've half-written.
I write about my day, or some event, or trip, or crazy afternoon.
And then....I never know how to end it.
If there is a lesson I learned that some readers can take home?
If there is someone I served, is that my story to tell?
Then I close the tab.
I don't finish it.
I don't publish it.
A while ago I had a meeting that...was very pointed...and was focused on FERPA regulations and policies. With my job, I have a lot of access. So I'm careful. After this meeting, I made it a point to approach my teachers during the first week of the semester and tell the what I did as a student worker, make them aware of the course access I had, and ask them if they would rather I submitted assignments in paper, or took tests their office. You know when your youngest sibling was 2, and they had a phase where they would only watch ONE movie, back to back to back to back? This FERPA meeting felt like part of one of those phases. I'm dating a man who wants to be a shrink. His father is a shrink. I was in the relief society presidency. I have, in effect, an all-seeing eye for the school's classes. I have friends and roommates that I can empathize with, but I can't fix.
I'm not sure which stories are mine to tell anymore.
I've had adventures, I promise I have. I realized that blogging takes a lot of time, and with my computer going the way of the world, I didn't make time for it. Staring at the computer for long periods of time makes my head hurt...until I put on my glasses. Thank heaven for optical technology. I've turned a lot of personal computer time into OBERT time. Which is handy now that I'm almost ready to play 2 sonatas for my recital.
It feels weird to write in this medium. My life is no longer filled with an ever-changing variety of characters. I chose a few.
I feel like there is so much back story that I'd have to trudge through in order to have anything I say make sense.
I don't have a very vivid imagination. My mind is a fairly quiet place. Ask my mom and my 2nd grade teachers, sometimes my mind is just empty and content to be so. I don't paint pictures with words. Look at my old posts, I tell stories with inserted back-story, and I talk in circles.
To make a hard story into something digestible-- I had a lot of good people around me. I liked them a lot. I mothered them more than I, or they, realized at the time. We joked about it, that I was 'mom'; but nobody knew how much until I left. And I did, I left. And they threw a parting party, and it was sweet.
And I heard nothing more from them until the day I came home.
I learned to keep my stories, to write them down just for me, and to share them in person; that meant more to whomever I was conversing with anyway.
I would love to tell you why; but a lot of those aren't happy stories. I'm not good at being sad. Spencer says that's why he chose me.
The adventures aren't gone, they're just as simple as they used to be. The world is so much bigger than I am, and you have just as much to offer it as I do. I don't like telling my stories and not hearing yours.