This week marks seven years since I’ve written in my space, Being Rudri. I remember my first post and the swirl of emotions I felt memorializing my grief about losing my father. That year the landscape of my life felt hazy, blurred and lacked definition. In a matter of a few months in 2009, I transitioned out of my legal career, moved to Arizona after living in Texas all my life, lost my father and my newly widowed mother decided to live with us. The uncertainty which accompanied those days felt as if the toy spindle losing control and nothing I did could stop the frenzied momentum.
So I channeled every tear with a word. I didn’t know if a single person listened to my pain, but I needed a forum to express the emptiness. I’d unravel a piece of my sadness, lacing together what it meant. Most of the time, there wasn’t a neat bow. The shoestrings remained free, dangling, unable to connect. The words offered an open permission to confess. I learned to use the blank page as my confidant, therapist and friend.
I’ve said this in the past. This space saved me. In the early months after losing my father, my entire world appeared as a disjointed puzzle. I confronted thoughts on mortality, melancholy, the pendulum swinging between sadness and happiness and the texture of not only embracing loss, but understanding how I morphed into another person because of it.
I still miss my father every single day. The grief lingers and blackmails you into shedding tears. But I attempt to channel this melancholy in this space, as well as in my essays and memoir. Writing is power. It helps quiet the noise and allows a small window in understanding uncertainty.
Because of my writing here, I’ve connected with unexpected people who’ve enriched my writing and personal life. I count these people in my tribe because even though we have never met in person, they get me. And as I age and stand in the talk stalks of midlife, I need people who understand all of my working parts, the ones that squeak and the ones that sing. And because I write, I’ve had conversations people in my real life, as well as strangers who find solace by sharing how they feel about their own personal losses.
There is always talk in the blogosphere about abandoning an existing blog. In the days of digital overwhelm, reading a blog might seem like “just another thing” to add to an already long list. I’ve noticed a decline in comments and readership, but this fact doesn’t bother me. Writing this blog creates a pathway to appreciate the process. This is where I confess my becoming and explore how I navigate my personal joy and turmoil. It’s a corner of the universe I dub completely mine and the space embraces me with open arms.
To that end, I’ve realized I’m fiercely loyal to this space because it has taught me how to live. Its extended a hand and said, “Come on – you got this.” I see the beauty and the madness because writing has taught me to pay attention to what exists beyond my knowledge – the cerulean sky, the edge on the mountains and the brilliance of the sun. Acknowledging the infinite external terrain helps cushion my fall. It’s a metaphor for strength and fragility, an apt reminder to sink into the present without worrying how the next moment might appear.
I am filled with gratitude seven years later. Thank you so much for reading and commenting and learning with me. The kaleidoscope is still blurry, but I am able to identify the edges with a little more clarity. Here’s to seven years. Thank you for listening.