stalker

my sister, joking, calls me 'stalker', and yet she isn't too far off. I'm stalking my past me. trying to be sneaky and see who I was.

I've been blogging for 2 years now. my early blogs were oh, so short and sweet. if you read me now, you see I am a woman of words.

I am a woman of words who won't stop truth telling, who won't stop story telling, who won't stop feeling and talking about feelings and loving and writing and getting all those delicious thoughts out in my own way. I don't write for any audience. I write for me. I write to tell my truth and my story. And so what if my story is a series of rambles and brambles and thorns and flowers and berries and laughs and cries and shouts? So what if my words are all a bumbling jumble stumbling across my screen, stumbling from my fingertips so swiftly and softly and clackingly?

So I stalk my former self. Who was I? was I still me?

two years ago I was a married woman, a farmer, a gardener, a woman who painted her bathroom "pudding" and hid ketchup packets as emergency rations in her glovebox. I was a woman who had chickens and kept a daily egg count.

one year ago I was a woman who was married but on the verge of separation, a farmer soon to be farmless, a woman who questioned her boundaries and who was really confused, a woman who loved and was afraid, a woman who was loved and was afraid. A woman who had conversations in her office that freaked her out and made her smile and maybe changed her life. and maybe not.

i didn't really know what to imagine my life would be now, a year (or two) later. All I know is that I have a deep longing for something more. "but as bad as i am / i'm proud of the fact /that i'm worse than i seem. / what kind of paradise am i looking for? / i've got everything i want and still i want more"-Ani, "grey"

Maybe I'm not stalking my past, but my present and my future.