Category: blog

So, how does one begin blogging again?

It’s been a year since I’ve come to Dunblane, and a year since this blog fell into a pattern of weary neglect.  And yet, I can never quite give it up.  I do the same thing to houseplants:  ignoring them for weeks till they turn a sickly pale shade, and then swooping in with over-abundant water and profuse apologies and promises never to let it happen again.

This time, I tried to begin blogging again by redesigning the thing.    Still longing for beauty.  Still foolish enough to think it can be found through Cascading Style Sheets.  WordPress had a whole host of new styles for me.  But none of them helped.  It’s still the same old blog — and actually, I like this old theme that I’ve been tweaking for so long.

So, there is no easy fix.  No fresh look, with which I can spur myself to action.

I shall have to do this the hard way by thinking of things to say.

I celebrated Pentecost by losing my voice.
Through my laryngitis, I preached (in part) about how the Spirit helps us to find our voice:  refuses to let us be silenced.

Do stop and enjoy the irony.

But it occurs to me that that is precisely where I am:
struggling to speak
still believing that it is worth speaking
trying to find my voice.

again.

Blogging as discipline…

But really, that’s about as realistic as telling my plants I will never again abandon them to the desert.   I need your help with this.  A few of you have been very loyal, despite my not writing.  Can you nudge me on the way?

I’m going to try to blog most days again.  (oh dear, how non-committal I’ve become)  But I’m hoping you’ll get me started…

What shall I blog about?

Give me a word, and image, a sentence, a question, and idea.

Each and every day.  By Twitter.  By comments.  By phone.  By email.  What shall we talk about today?

the wind was violet on the river:  sudden flashes of delight that rolled sapphire to the shore.  Sometimes the water resisted in a hundred points of gold.  But mostly it went along with it, slipping gently back to copper   black   green when the wind died.

There were tadpoles too, first noticed by their shadow.  Then a lovely black lab, and finally a wag-tail.

Across the bank, one tree was taller than the rest:  a thousand pink buds yearning against a blue sky.

This is becoming a habit:  going down to the river after a funeral.  I need the space to clear my head, let go of the story, find myself again after making a holding space for other people’s emotions.   And today doubly so, for the man was too young — leaving children without a father, mother and father without a son, and a widow who should be in the midst of busy joyous years.

And now, as a nod to the holiday weekend, I shall not pretend to resume work.  I’ve fed the squirrels.  The jackdaws are hopping, waiting their turn.  Molly is catching a last pool of sunlight on the desk, and anticipating a lap.

A good day, even if born of pain.

for the sake of the past two hours, the past year was worth it.

(and all the best stories of priesthood are the ones you cannot tell.)