As a high-school drama geek I learned the key to effectively faking conversation in the background of a scene was to say “watermelon baby” over and over and over and over. It’s a phrase that means nothing but looks like something.
Six months ago I thought I was ready to just get up and go. Get back to the page, but, as you can see, I wasn’t. I feared my prose wouldn’t be as eloquent as some of the writers that I read. Afraid that I would be unable to flesh out my ideas into a cohesive statement. I thought everything I wrote had to be significant. If it didn’t carry weight or wit or knowledge or joy that I would be just another aimless blogger.
I don’t have a singular focus. I can turn to any number of subjects that will hold my attention for hours and, frankly, I like that. It’s more interesting that way.
This weekend I had the most amazing opportunity to meet with a group of women who are all there with me. Pushing, pulling, stretching and contracting to find their place, their self and their purpose. It was a reminder that I am not alone in this struggle and if they are willing to put it out there who am I to sit on the sidelines and contemplate my toes? It’s time to take that watermelon-baby and grow it into something incredible. Time to feed it, water it and let the sun shine down on it. I’m going to tromp my way through the flower-beds, plop myself down on a patch of land and see what happens. No more watermelon, baby.