I came back to this blog today to post my mother's recipe for sourdough English muffins, which was a staple item for our family back when we lived on the Girl Scout camp at Belmont, near TC Steele State Memorial. My mind this morning is crowded with thoughts of a lifetime. It pingpongs back and forth.
I journal a lot, not every day, but through the last 30 years or so. It will take hours, days, weeks, maybe even years, for someone to read through them, if they care to. And the trip through my mind is not always a pleasant one.
But there are some bits and pieces that might be useful or meaningful?
It's asking too much for anyone to go through my journals.
When I was a teenager and counselors asked me what I planned to do with my education, or my life, I always answered: "I want to be a writer." What did I mean by that?
Then I read somewhere that you could only write about what you knew, what you experienced.
And throughout my life I have always felt like no matter what I attempted to say, it had been said before, and better. My experiences were never interesting enough, or relevant enough to write about.
But now I believe that writing is much like cooking. Each time you take the basic ingredients and process them through time and motion, spice them up with a unique selection of flavors, and subject them to the energies of the day (sign of the moon, temperature, humidity, level of human activity in the surroundings) the end product will be unique, sometimes mediocre, occasionally memorable.
The basic ingredients in my life: family, food, music, nature, textiles
The basic processes in my life: sorting, weaving, cooking, counting, analyzing
