speak first from my own life

what would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.
— muriel rukeyser

Once upon a time, I decided to write the words of my ordinary life. I was deep in the years of child raising and home keeping. It was my way of sending out a flare into the night sky, of saying, @@I am here and this is my life. Are you out there too?@@

I wrote about the journey from homeschooling to unschooling and a bit about what it was like living in a household with nine children. I wasn't an expert. I wasn't giving out my favorite recipes and household tips. I was figuring out how to live, how to breathe. I wrote my process. 

Then came the implosion of everything that I ever believed as true and right. I stood by and watched as the bedrock of my faith shook and crumbled. I spent years navigating that pile of rubble, salvaging what was truly good and holy. Those treasured bits and pieces form this quasi-spiritual mosaic of the being I am today. Through the deconstruction, I wrote. The reconstruction has found fewer words. Leaving behind labels and their accompanying definitions creates a scarce lexicon. I haven't made up the deficit yet. 

Something happened along the way of writing the words of my ordinary life. It became a business. Not my business but blogging in general became part of the new business model for getting noticed out here in the tangle of the interwebs. That was before blogging was replaced or heavily supported by Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and Vines and Periscope and probably a dozen other social media platforms that I know nothing about. 

I'd like to say that I am still here writing the words of my ordinary life but that's not true. I, too, fall prey to building a better blog and write this not that advice and the censorship and hype that comes with creating a brand. What do I have to offer the world? Who is my audience? How do I package myself and my words? 

My voice became weakened and scratchy. My 100 day project last year about awakening the withered voice by writing daily was supposed to be a remedy, a healing. Then the whirlwind move came and everything feels unsettled and I have forgotten again who I am and how I be. I have forgotten that it is not the what that I offer but the who that I offer. I have forgotten that first, I must speak from my own life. 

Here I am remembering. Again.