Throughout my life, writing has been a cherished expression for me. At one point I even felt that writing was as important as breathing. I so urgently wanted to tell my story about where I came from, what was done to me, what had happened in my life. I wanted to share tidbits, information, inspiration, resources. It was a form of therapy, a creative outlet, and a way to connect intimately with others (even when those others were anonymous). <\/p>\n
I’ve noticed since becoming a mother I have written less. No, I take that back. For the first two years of Bean’s life, I wrote about her<\/em>. Then I decided to reign that in, since she is developing greater agency over her life. Lately, blogging about my life strikes me as an incredibly narcissistic activity; it always has been, but at one point I actually thought it had value. Increasingly, though, I see that my vignettes, reflections, and insights are not original, and I’m not certain that writing them (here or in a paper journal) effects anything beneficial. I don’t seem to need to do it anymore. So this blog has become a place to link to resources related to my current activity (parenting) and the occasional photo or movie of Bean. This morning I realized there are usually three factors that cause my writing silence; any one of these can be cause for me to abandon writing for while:<\/p>\n As it happens, all of these factors are true at the moment. Hence, my sporadic posts.<\/p>\n\n