The Best Things About Blogging

1. Individuality and community.
Blogging gives us the best of both, lets us develop our self in the nest of “the collective heartbeat”. (Anne Lamott)

2. The freedom.
Anything goes: some days this is my own TED stage or talk show. On others, my stand-up. Sometimes it’s my notebook.

3. The empowering.
You can take yourself as seriously as you want to and ask others to.

4. The humbling.
You remember you’re just a leaf in the forest. Let’s keep it real.

5. The immediacy, the organic exchange.

6. The traffic.
The comment board is the interface of lives and a place where people can lend their perspective to expand yours.

7. The pay-out.
It’s the immigrant ethos. You sight unchartered space in blogosphere, nothing in your pocket. You stake your ground, work hard, and can build something of worth.

8. The low maintenance.
Comb my hair? Figure out which top to wear?  I can blog in my bathrobe behind my smiling avatar, ever presentable.

Forbes.com

Forbes.com

9. The low cost.
I got the premium plan to keep the ads away, for your sake and mine. I felt vandalized when they started popping up. There is no motive for my writing other than the joy and I’m not here to mark out a trail to a pretty place that empties your wallet. Anyway, at 27 cents a day it beats spending on gas and an overrated drink at Starbucks to enjoy friends.

10. The Efficiency.
I’m all set. Honey, no need to write anything for my funeral. Just pull up the comments for the eulogies!

The Real Reasons I Blog

1. To ward off dementia.

2. Stay in touch with my roots. No such thing as overworking with Koreans. Rest? Psh. That’s what the grave is for.

3. You’ve saved me money on therapy. I didn’t have to go this year.

4. I don’t want to clean. Who in their right mind would choose mopping and dusting over THIS?

5. It’s my one rightful obsession. I don’t drink, smoke, go on shopping sprees, or get pedicures. You gotta give me sOmething.

6. I can be as anal as I want and people like me for it. Go figure.

7. I’m repressed. Parents didn’t let me stay out at night. I get to party ’round the clock as the comments roll in.

8. I hand out advice on stuff: blogging, life, men and women. And all these people think I’m for real.

9. It’s my only chance at keeping up with technology. I’m terrified to tweet, annoyed with Facebook, have yet to go near an iPod, hate texting.

10. I haven’t had this much fun since…since…
*Slump* Pathetic. (Time for my next pick-me-up post.)

Never Too Old To Dance

As fun as it was to shake it, I buried my dance clothes in the treasury of happy memories deciding that I barely got away with it at my age. Mr. Wayfarer disagrees. Forty-two is hardly a time for him to start hanging hats. Yoko Ono seems to have proved him right. She shows what it means for 60 to be the new 40. So now I’m rethinking my dance avocation. If you’re 50 or older (in real time) and inspired by the video to do a jig on camera, email me your work of art in motion and I’ll consider posting it. Actually, it can be any display of creative or physical activity that might inspire us to adjust our self-imposed boundaries.

That like button is still under lock and key, by the way. I can’t believe you went ahead and tapped the Reader. Please. I am very busy on the home front and will stress at the sight of my inbox spilling over. *scowl*

 

Thanks to Leprosy on the Wall for the fun link.
holisticwayfarer@gmail.com

Readers’ Choice

Please respect my wishes. I. Do. Not. Want. Your. Like. On. This. Can I be any clearer, well-meaning friends? Tell you what. I will let you know when I really want it. I’ve hidden the button under the post so please don’t go tapping it on your Reader.

We’re not done with beauty. But on the heels of the party the neighbors complained about, I wanted to take the occasion to ask: What are some kinds of posts you would like to see more of here? We’ve talked about dreams, persistence, hope, death, loss, love, shame, fear, faith, parenting, achievement, money, childhood, race, culture, identity, belonging. There are the posts on clear writing and effective blogging, my helpless series on men and women, the behind-the-scenes exchanges between Mr. and Mrs. Wayfarer, dialogue between Mom and Boy – the blog plaited with poetry, with a touch of song (and dance). You seem to enjoy how I’ve used series to kaleidoscope through a topic. Thanks for welcoming our guest writers. One said that her blood froze every time she saw mail from me (laden with the edits). Wahahaha. Let’s just say your spirited support smooths things over. So suggestions and requests? You’re welcome to help steer the ship.

Come To My Party: Please RSVP

So we just talked about dancing. I waited to celebrate the 100,000 views I broke Valentine’s week with the 10,000 follows that were on their way. It’s not a medal or the Ph.D. from my alternative life but here I am. I’ll take it.

The show is 45 seconds. You know Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive? Mr. Wayfarer played it and I went with it. Here’s what I’m acting out:

Turn around now. You’re not welcome anymore.
You’re the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye.
Do you think I’d crumble, did you think I’d lay down and die?
No, not I, I will survive. Long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive.
I’ve got all my life to live and all my love to give. I’ll survive. I, I, I will survive.

It took all my strength not to fall apart, trying without my mind
to mend my broken heart. I spent so many nights feeling sorry for myself,
how I cried. But now I hold my head up high. And you see me, somebody new.
I’m not that lonely little person who’s still in love with you.
Now you come dropping in, expecting me to be free.

Now I’m saving all my lovin’ for someone who’s loving me.
Go on now, walk out the door. Turn around now, you’re not welcome anymore.
You’re the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye.
Think I’d might crumble, did you think I’d lay down and die?
No, not I, I will survive. Long as I know how to love I know I’ll stay alive.

But we hit a wall with the copyright and had to use a different song – not the one our son was drumming to.

Please rsvp and join the party.

Thank you doesn’t quite seem to cut it. But let me try. Deep appreciation to my most loyal likers and commenters and the quiet readers who haven’t missed a post. Thanks to those who’ve been with me from the start as well as those who find themselves coming back. Thank you to my newest readers and lastly, gratitude always to my husband and son who’ve let me be who I more fully am on the holistic journey.

 

 

 

My Vows…To You

Vows3I, Holistic Wayfarer, take thee [Insert name], to be my WordPress-registered partner. In the presence of God, our family and friends, I pledge to thee my abiding support in sickness and in health, in the homeschooling and holiday breaks (well, more during the breaks), for richer for poorer ~ no matter your blog size ~ in joy as well as in sorrow. I promise to support you in your goals, to honor and respect you, to laugh and cry with you, and value every like and comment ’til you should unfollow and do us part.

I Challenge You

Make me cry
Make me wonder
Give me chills, my
assumptions sunder.

Make me bellyache
and slap my lap, not
wince. Convince
me you’re the real deal.

Mix me a drink
Hold the sugar. I have
expensive taste, please –
richer, fuller

Teach me something high
or low, so much I don’t know
We don’t have to be in sync
but do make me think.

Quick! Erase the cliché
Wayfarer’s on her way
Oh mercy: rain…heaven’s tears?
She’s had it up to her ears.

Easy on the adverbs
Her sensibilities disturb
Impress or bless, but don’t bore her
when she’s willing to concur and confer.

But no one’s responding, you lament
Well, compel HW to comment.
Learn from her, this poem her worst yet
but see here the footprints of those who tread.

There is hope for all. Turn
around, if you’ve hit a wall.
If you knew how busy she is, this
challenge you wouldn’t dismiss.

Don’t post just to post. Wait
’til you can give your utmost.
Oh, don’t ring hollow
if you want her follow.

But Everybody’s Doing It

This happens not to be how I view my blogging but this metaphor is built into every one of our blogs. You’ve all done sales. Every time you’ve recommended a book, movie, or restaurant, you were doing it. And every referral of yours that someone’s followed through on showed either your delivery was good or the product sold itself. Well, here you are self-employed as a blogger, your currency not dollars and cents but time. So why isn’t your blog growing as you’d like?

1. They don’t know you’re there.
I’ve seen you put up 800, 1200 impassioned words and I’d love to see you earn more than four likes. You obviously care about your blog. It looks good. You’re open for business. But it sure is quiet. If your livelihood were at stake, what would you have made sure to do before the Grand Opening and kept up? Right, advertise. I didn’t think this needed to be said again but are you visiting and engaging bloggers? Do better than I did. When I stepped out on WordPress, it was just my nose pressed to my words. I didn’t know to look up. Twenty-one months later, giving to get is how I neither blog nor live but if you’re offering decent material, Natural Cyber Law says you should enjoy some support back.

2. But they’re not buying.
There is a sense in which we’re all peddling our blog and asking passersby for their time. Our FOLLOW ME button betrays us in this hope. If your business plateaus, what do you do? The question really is what should you do differently? You change the marketing, move, rethink your niche or product. The product would be the last thing you touch in blogging because there are so many of us out here that a decent presentation should connect you with like-minded viewers. Through the wide range of topics I have covered, my offering comes down to my writing. My product – though I wrinkle my nose to say it that way – is every word I lay as carefully as a mother does her newborn in his cradle. If the idea of sales is too crass for you as it threatens to be for me, think of sponsorships. Sales is really the business of eliciting support for merchandise, service, or information, and sponsorships seek patronage usually on a larger scale or for artistic enterprises. Whether small or big, quantitative, or qualitative, patronage is payment in various forms for work considered worthy. In blogging, what you’re asking of us is our time. You either convince us you’ll make it worth our while or you don’t.

3. There’s nothing in it for them.
Remember, you’re not filling a private journal but seeking an audience. You scribble away zealously. You really want to write this, share that. But will it grab us? If you were someone else and stumbled on your blog, would you be impressed? Would you follow? I’m not talking about subscribing to your own blog to raise the count. I’m asking if you’d find any amusement, entertainment, beauty, insight, inspiration, intrigue, laughs, provocation, stimulation, information that’ll make you want more on that blog. Leave you actually looking forward to more.

The Land of the Living

March 2003, Journal

Friends were ready to call 911 this week.

Painfully sleep-deprived with glands really bad off, I attempted a home sauna. I didn’t realize it’d be too much after last week’s sauna at the gym. I drank at least a gallon of water this time but started seeing lights flash in the bathroom. My hands tingled. Things took a fast downturn the more I drank. I vomited myself completely out. Totally dehydrated, I went into shock.

I couldn’t move, lost sensation and perception of color. The few muscles I could still feel stiffened like wood. Lightheaded, I could hardly speak. Or crawl. I collapsed on the phone and managed to eke out a few words.

The wildest thing was the perfect succession of friends who came. After my doctor, the first friend I got a hold of was out on her lunch break right nearby. She made a bank deposit for me before the hour passed so the rent check wouldn’t bounce. Also went and picked up what I needed from my doctor’s to keep me out of the hospital.

She was stunned to see me like that but couldn’t stay. When she dropped off the goods, my roommate had just arrived. Roomie was indispensable. She held the phone to my ear because I couldn’t do even that and as I whispered back to the doctor, kept the paper bag over my mouth and swathed me in blankets. I later learned she happened to have dropped by that moment only to grab some medicine for a sick friend she had with her. By this point, I had called T for prayer. I couldn’t pick up his follow-up calls and then was disoriented and taken aback to hear him at the door. Two other friends entered on his heels. I didn’t want them there, felt so bad for being a bother when I didn’t know them as well, but later saw I would’ve had to call the ambulance if they hadn’t taken care of me that night.

—————————–

So two guys, one girl. They didn’t have enough hands. Too nauseated and weak to move, I couldn’t open my eyes or sip water. Whatever I drank I promptly lost through both ends. I ran through the first remedy quickly and needed more. Friends spoke with the doctor and while one guy ran out to her office, I started regressing and losing feeling throughout my body again. I was limper than a rag doll (which at least has stuffing enough to sit up) that they had to push my chest and head up against the wall, keep the paper bag over my head, quickly lift it while one spooned me remedies every 40 seconds and pulled the bag back down.

It was so incredible we laughed. In his typical humor, T complained his hand was tired and hooked his elbow under my chin to keep my head up in a (gentle) wrestling choke. By the time they put me to bed at 11 pm, I hadn’t slept since three in the morning and my stomach was empty. What they had done was unbelievable. They had to work the next day but labored nonstop for seven hours to nurse an invalid back to life. I’d heard them pray.

It’s like…I’ve been in line forever at the DMV after an endless license suspension that’s kept me off the road, the land of the living. Just as I was making noticeable progress up the line, I found myself forced all the way to the end again. I’m looking out the window at the cars zooming past, sure I’ll never be able to join the world of normal again.

==================

December 2014

It is hard not to get emotional revisiting this chapter of the craziness I once called my life. I went on to rebuild from Ground Zero, to become stronger, to dance, marry and give birth to the child of my dreams. I went on to write and live all over again. There are many things about my blogging journey that have startled me – not only the growth of this readership but the depth. You don’t know what it is you do for me. Some days I hit publish. And your comfort is so deep, though I hadn’t sought it. Apparently, I’m not done needing angels. We all talk about the treasure of community we discovered in one another. A fresh wonder, it’s a familiar refrain on my lips. I’ve come to genuinely care for many of you these 21 months, and to share in your happiness and sorrows. I wish I could make it better, that things will look up in the new year, that the sun will break through your grief and fears. I also learned to laugh with you. Now that’s living, isn’t it? I look back at these 11 years. Wow, I’ve come far. Thanks to those who would light my way back every time. Normal? I’ll never be normal. And this blog proves it. You are one extraordinary bunch, great minds with the biggest hearts, and I am so very fortunate to know your love, affection, and respect. As you’ve glimpsed, I’ve received a great deal over the years and if the candles I light should ever help you find your way and stay the course, I am so grateful to be able to pay it forward.


Related posts

The Wayfaring Poem
I Am Rich

Comments closed.

I Enjoy Stripping

cake2I don’t like having more than one of anything. Feels wasteful. I mean, one hairbrush will do. My wedding dress and cake had no decorations, no ribbon or flower. Nothing. In my day-to-day, I map out the most efficient route for errands. Lose time and you’ve lost what’s irretrievable. I like to keep on the spare side of things.

It hit me that the way I relate to money and time is how I write. I try to work each word full tilt. I love having guest writers see they can toss two, three hundred words to find the heart of their story. Of the 42 who have come through these doors, virtually all have sworn they have “cut to the bone” and just can’t reach the word limit I set. I plunge my knife, head straight for the marrow, send them the bloody remains. Yes, laughing like Cruella De Vil. My toughest critic, I stripped a short February post of a dozen words last night, nodding in approval. Cleaner, tighter. I do my best to preserve the unique voice of every contributor, which is why we have had 42 different voices in the repertoire. No one has to or should sound like me. Goodness, not with the literary greats to emulate. But I believe we can apply principles of efficiency no matter what our style. Because we writers and poets love our words so much, we tend to err on the side of overstating and in our earnestness, try too hard. We all know less is more but my guests still scrounge for the anesthesia when they see the knife. Which reminds me. I need to wipe that blade.

Comments closed.

HW, in cahoots with the Mafia