Blogging

The keyboard.  It opens doors to other lands, faraway tropics where sand oozes between toes, where seagulls cry. Here I become more real than the me who does the typing. 

You see, the letters on the keys are like friends who invite me out of myself.  They want me to come away, to slip past the kitchen sink and the pile of laundry, and go beyond the appointments screaming from the calendar and the snow accumulating in the driveway. To some other place, some cloistered spot. 

And I find it.  At the keyboard.

It’s like a vacation, every time.  I never know for sure what will show up, what words will exhale through my fingers across the screen to tell me something I don’t even know I’m thinking.  Because I’m not.  Thinking.  At all.  Until whatever-it-is jumps out of its hiding place, wherever that is.  Then I get it down. 

The more I write, the more tangled cobwebs clear out.  Its like airlifting overweight cows locked belly-deep in mud.  I am rescued.  I am free.

Sometimes the end result is not much from a literary point of view - “transcendental meanderings,” as one person said.  But other times it’s a worthy scripting of soul.  Perhaps even a flicker of light in another person’s darkness.

And so, I keep blogging.