"People have to talk about something just to keep their voice boxes in working order so they'll have good voice boxes in case there's anything really meaningful to say" --Kurt Vonnegut

When I tell people I am an introvert, they don't believe me. I compensate for a book-loving, tea-drinking proclivity by donning a wisecracking, irreverent alter ego in exciting social settings. They are both me. I just prefer to share my more thoughtful moments with a small inner circle. My large-group recklessness is a lot of fun... and a protective shield. Slightly overwhelmed by large groups (who do I talk to first? What if I overlook someone?), I still love the excitement for a short while. And if people don't like me in that setting, that's ok because it's not the me I protect and care about.

Journaling has concerned me for the very reason that it exposes the thoughtful me which I care very much about protecting.  I burned my teenage journals years ago when my brand new husband read them without permission and expressed disgust in the shallow person residing there. I was ashamed. Since then, I have hesitated to keep an honest account of myself. My inner workings are messy. I am unwisely passionate. How will I appear? Will my children and friends be as harsh as my husband and I were when we condemned Earlier Me?

At the same time, I treasure the journals I have of my grandmother and grandfather. I deeply mourn the grandmother who felt Life deeply and left no journal. She died before I was an adult and I have so many questions. I want to know her inner workings, even if they were messy. No, I want to know because I know they were messy. She may have been just like me. She may have been the one to tell me why what I feel is so... OK.

In the past month, with my past life colliding with a new life, I suddenly realized how I have isolated myself as I concentrated on putting all of my efforts into fixing what was wrong in my family, and then, finally,  preparing for an inevitably different future. I wanted to reach out to someone who could relate to what I am feeling. I have spent too much time on Facebook... and I have enjoyed it. I read several blogs and found comfort there. I gained respect for families that I discovered had problems and tragedy and lived life fully anyway. I took strength from their experiences. I listened to their voice as I planned my future. Their messy inner workings were a relief and an inspiration. They revealed just enough to help me. Wouldn't I be ungrateful and selfish not to pass that on? Would I let fear silence my voice? What if one or two people found my blog in those late night internet wanderings and recognized themselves there? Felt my support from far away... felt just enough love to get them to a safe harbor of Love?

Every blog- or journal-keeper takes risks. As I think of it, every artist takes risks. Every author of Holy Writ takes risks. Love especially takes risks. Everything of worth in my life comes because someone took a risk. It is my turn. My sharing will heal me and my sharing will heal someone else. That is how I will thank those whose words and lives give me strength to live fully.

Thank you.