There's dust here, my doing. Yes.
In March I'll have been coming here to this place for eight years, I suppose. Dates and numbers are and aren't my thing. They remember themselves before I remember them; remind my body before my brain.
When I started here—this place—it had no shape. That was its beauty and its innocence; my innocence, too.
People still come here looking for answers to questions about Tourette's and discrimination. And that's a story I wouldn't have told here without my husband's insistence that I not silence my voice in fear.
This became an unintentional blog about cancer, loss, and grief. Three times.
It became an unintentional blog about a lot of things—depression, rape, autism, stalking, marriage, dating, love, blended families, politics, photography, travel, homeschooling, cooking.
It became an unintentional source of support for others, but also for me during the most difficult times.
The world held my hand as I buried my husband. And held me up in the months that followed. My children and I know the love and generosity of a family borne from this place in addition to family borne from blood.
As my place here has bent and shifted to my life, it's form pushed and pulled to accommodate my story, its innocence has been replaced—mine, too.
What started as a hidden corner, once mostly my own, has become a marketplace—small, but frequented by regulars and occasional passersby. And I love that it's grown into its own, while at the same time I long for that hidden corner.
I find myself writing more and more in other spaces with varying degrees of public exposure. And I'm writing more pieces that I'm not publishing at all, which feels okay for now.
I've not been one to write for others. The few times I've toyed with it, it felt unnatural. The words and inspiration need to be mine. The story, mine.
Dust may gather here, but the stories and pictures will be mine.