Blogiversary, The First

One year ago today, this blog came into existence. I was inspired not only by the sizeable number of blogs I was then reading on a daily basis, but by an extremely gifted and respected friend who had confessed to the creation of her own blog.

After a few fits and starts, the end result has become this place - an eclectic spot, as I see for myself while rooting around the archives.

I've written about aliens, both illegal and extraterrestrial. I've written about the places to which I've traveled, and the hopes and dreams that have followed me throughout those journeys - the occasions which have profoundly changed my ways of thinking, and the naieve romanticism I've had to leave behind.

I've written about confrontations with distant lands and unfamiliar cultures, precious and rare opportunities for me to embrace and thus explore my interest of the exotic and unknown.

I've written about books, food, current events, friendship, depression, anger, family, and cosmic indifference.

I've wept, exulted, and rolled my eyes heavenward countless times.

There are posts about gods, tolerance, perceived sexism, racism, feminism, cross-cultural marriage, and unrealistic expectations.

I've bastardized the elegant delineations of haiku to suit my purposes, with most of the verses composed while walking the streets of New York.

As one has categories of thought, so I've had categories of writing, such as File Under; In Which Our Heroine; Fresh Hell Family Stories, and This Week In Its Briefs.

To write that I never thought I'd stick with this creative endeavor for a year would be disingenous, I fear - as writers perhaps we all appear astonished that time has passed so quickly and that time itself can be encapsulated so neatly by our prose.

I believe in what I write and I continue to believe it has some small worth. To approach the blank space of the computer armed with this paltry weaponry should strike one, does strike one as hubris; not the monumentally life-changing essential component of human tragedy kind, but the garden variety recognizable as quaintly quotidian kind.

Which leaves me inordinately proud.