This is how I was going to begin the blog I never wrote: "And in short, I was afraid."
I never really got "The Waste Land," but I've always had a fondness for T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," a poem with words I return to again and again. Yes, that's how I was going to begin the blog I never wrote: with a quote from my favorite poem, a poem which is not so much a love song as it is a desperate, heart-wrenching life song. And in short, I was afraid.
What blog? Why were you afraid? Or the better question: Why give into the overzealous mania of blogging? Couldn't you do something better with your life - say, for instance, breathe?
I only read one blog: my sister's. It reads like her columns except with a little less form and a few more choice four-letter words. It makes me laugh and cry and sometimes if I'm lucky and the story calls for one I get to help her pick out the accompanying picture. Because that's what she's doing - writing stories, writing a verse of her life song little by little. If she is afraid, she isn't letting her fear inhibit her work.
I started my blog a few weeks ago. I have a title and a picture, and I'm pretty sure I entered some kind of "about me." I have framed the empty space around what I need to say perfectly, but my tongue is tied.
I started a blog about the same time I deactivated my Facebook. I got rid of the heinous social media site for a lot of reasons, but mainly for my well-being. I'll probably re-activate it eventually - my narcissistic tendencies are barely sated by Twitter - but for now I am basking in the blissful ignorance of not knowing anything about what anyone is up to. I would like to think the way Facebook fed my self-obsession with constant requests to "Upload those pics!" is now being replaced by a different kind of self, with a different kind of need. No one is watching me. It doesn't matter what I'm doing. So I might as well do something good.
"And in short..." I went to my friend's lake house for a quick sojourn during Spring Break. Her house and the surrounding property was gorgeous - I immediately exclaimed that the spot was great for my 'zen.' I'm not really sure what 'zen' is or whether or not it happens to be in my possession. But I was still happy I had a chance to try and put into words the overwhelming calm/happy/content feeling which was starting to settle, like tiny granules of good, into all the desperate, heart-wrenching crevices of my being.
"...I was afraid." But why? Why can I not bring myself to type one word on my beautifully designed blog? Why even start a blog if you have no intention of writing about all the "good" things you're doing for yourself? Because, I don't want to be afraid.
I used to be afraid of that feeling I now crave: contentment, happiness, zen. I was afraid if I were happy I wouldn't be funny or witty or edgy or troubled. I wouldn't be me.
I don't think Eliot was particularly happy, nor was J. Alfred Prufrock. And that's precisely why I love his love song, because it is gorgeous and true and filled with that so human yet so transcendent feeling of inadequacy - am I enough, will I ever be enough?
Happiness answers that question with a resounding "yes!" You are at this moment all you need to be. On a lake, in a sweltering 110-degree room, you can be. You don't need to capture it on Facebook; you don't need to capture it at all.
I'm not sure when I'll start my blog, all I know is I must. Because if I don't, I won't believe in creating happiness, I'll only ever focus on capturing everything in its way. I want to write about the good in the same way I so readily transform the bad into a desperate, heart-wrenching life song. I'm afraid, I'm terrified actually, of altering everything I think and know about who I should be. But it's time, and I'm ready for my love song.
Mary Scott's column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at m.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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