Well, my Boca Java arrived. Not only did it help Frank out, with his coffee purchases I mean, but I also acquired a free, large, black mug which says Always blog on a full tank. I am not usually partial to bill boardy sorts of things but having this mug at my side as I tap, tap away on these keys blogging my big, nappy, fuzzy, wuzzy head off, it feels like having an old friend standing by. And, yum, the coffee tastes good too.
So, here I am, at my new site. It feels a little strange. Different color scheme and photograph on the right hand side instead of the left like at the old Tamarika site. And it feels a little odd not being as open and public as I was … I mean the password and all. There was always something a little risky, on the edge, knowing that anyone anywhere could find me with a click of a button. On the other hand, I love to write and if one person or a thousand (which never happened anyway) read me, it makes no difference. I just gotta do it! Write it down.
Feelings, reflections, ideas, thoughts, opinions, words, words, words – my words.
Well, it seems that my words were incendiary. I thought I was plodding along searching for meaning to my life, trying to understand how I came to be me. At times I would grit my teeth on my past life experience, shake the material around like a bulldog, and, at the same time, try to hold onto respect and deep love of my family as I explored my early memories and made connections with the me of now. It seems that it became too painful for my siblings to bear. In fact, I was not aware that they were reading me. It had been some time that I thought they had tired of my blog. Most of my readers are blogging strangers, passers-by who come upon me while they are googling for something else.
One of my siblings termed me as "rubbishying" the family.
Ooh, that hurt. I cried for days, wandering the apartment all night long wringing my hands in despair.
It had taken me fifty years to gather the courage to face my demons down and tell my truth. The effect was enormous for me. Releasing, liberating and opening up the emotional space for me to forgive and love my mother in ways I would never have dreamed possible. In my latest visits home to Israel she and I spent hours talking, holding hands, crying and saying that we love each other. So it felt deep and sore and filthy to be called a "rubbisher."
At first I thought, "Just scrap the whole thing! Return to personal journaling and give up blogging. Who needs it anyway? Hardly anyone reads you anyway. What’s so great about blogging!" I tried that on for size, posting a number of different pieces describing my need to end the blog. And each time I felt the blog slipping away, the same feelings of loss and sadness returned. I really do love blogging. Yes, it is personal and just for me, on the one hand, but there is an excitement in knowing that someone out there is bearing witness with me. That I am not alone with all these wonderings, angst, joy, life struggles. I can finally tell my story – stories. Some that have been stored away for forty five years or so, deep in the memory brain, psyche, or right from my heart.
And so, I faced the morning. Dried up the tears and held my head up high. I read through my blog, all four hundred posts, and understanding how my siblings could feel so angry, I still thought, "Hm … I’m not such a bad person. Not such a low-life. Some of the stuff I write is good and meaningful for me. And, what’s more. It’s true. It happened." I remembered Alice Walker and how the truth had set me free. I certainly did not want to write censoring myself continually or looking over my shoulder in fear, even though I try to take care and not tell other people’s personal stories (unless they give me permission, that is). It is tricky and always a balance. Yes indeed.
"Aha!" I cried when I realized that TypePad had just the solution I needed for right here, right now. Create a new blog with a password. That way an intimate band of readers will seek you out on purpose if they want to read what you write and your poor, dear, suffering family will not have to stand guard at the gates to ensure I write the "right stuff," as they termed it. Yes indeed, that’s the term they used: "the right stuff." Just get rid of the "wrong stuff," that’s all. The only words that sprang to mind as I heard "the right and wrong stuff" was underground ... I would have to go underground. Of course they could not put me in jail or punish me, but they are my family and I am certainly not in this blogging world purposely to hurt them, even though a couple seem to think that is my motive. After all, they have busy and productive lives, are all competent and excellent at what they do. They do not have time to stop by and read my blog. For heaven’s sake. Going underground will be a service to them. They will be able to go on with their day’s work without having to keep an eye on Tamarika.
That way we all win. I can continue to tap, tap, tap away at the keyboard freely expressing my thoughts. My family can relax and get on with their lives.
Gee, I hope they don’t forget or give up on me altogether … although I have been down that road before and this time I am stronger, older, and more confident …
… and …
… I will survive.