It started as a pre-teen. I fell in love with journals. Not journalling. The journals themselves. But this clarity of thought did not occur until I had purchased ten or twelve journals over ten or twelve years. Always with the grand idea that my life was something worth chronicling. I wanted my thoughts to light the path for some girl in a future time. I wanted to be unique. Different. Special. Superior? Yes. I am ashamed to admit it, but I wanted to be better than _____ (fill in the blank). And if I penned a magnificent, thoughtful, erudite journal, I would prove to others (myself?) that all of that was true.
But then I would be stymied by the lack of poignancy to my words. A recitation of my day in school hardly merited the Newberry Award. My dedication flagged and the one week old journal then became proof of my averageness.
My blog has become my modern journal in many ways. I feel pressure to write spectacularly, to impress my unknown readers with my wit and my insight. But I don't always have cool thoughts or deep thoughts or important thoughts. I think about when would be the appropriate time to brew a second pot of coffee. I wonder why shampoo and conditioner bottles are so big because I want to buy a new set before the old one is even half gone. (This applies to body wash and perfume, too.) I pick up toys in the endless cycle of a mom and sometimes I don't even have a thought running through my head. Goodness, right now, I can't even think of what I think of!
Today I am not deep. I am not wise. I just am. One moment I will be playing Candyland with my four year old and the next I will have a random thought about why I don't show affection more easily. I will cut up some meat sticks for the baby while mentally weighing thoughts from my rational mind and from my want-to-be-skinny-at-all-costs mind. I am average. I excel in certain areas and fail miserably in others. I am normal. I have good days and I have bad days. I am better than no one.
And today, I am trying to let that be okay.
