There is something incredibly inviting about a white screen with nothing but a patiently blinking cursor. That blank page is always willing to unconditionally accept my outpouring. It listens even when it seems no one else cares to. If I painted, drew, or had any artistic ability at all, I’m sure the teeming possibilities of a new canvas would feel quite similar.
This blog is not my first attempt at trying to chronicle the deliberations and reflections roaming uninhibited inside me. My shelves are littered with old journals, my initial attempts at blogging still linger on the internet, and now I’ve found myself right back at that place where the thoughts get very loud and demand the page in front of me to listen to them.
As a child, I used to trip over myself whenever I tried to write. I had so much I wanted to say, to share, to understand through putting it on paper, that I couldn’t coordinate the proverbial “one foot in front of the other” when trying to form all the right words in a sequence that made sense. I’ll never forget my Grade 3 teacher trying to hammer home the benefit of an outline, or my dad repeatedly reminding me that other people couldn’t know all of what I was thinking unless I took the time to explain it more methodically.
At 27, I've certainly grown a lot from that restless, impatient, young girl who couldn't always mold her explosions of zeal, but my drive to write is often still my worst enemy. A quick scan of my computer would show you umpteen unfinished blog posts, a litany of scattered yet impassioned thoughts, and an endless list of ideas and subjects that interest me.
I want to let my thoughts breathe and in the process allow them to experience the acceptance of a blank page. Writing is my commitment to myself; a journey to give all those unfinished passions a fitting resolution.