It would be so easy not to write a blog post today.

I have been sick this week and have already missed publishing an article last Friday. Perhaps I am still recovering and don’t have enough strength to gather thoughts in a coherent fashion and blurt them onto the page.

I’m very practised at this tactic. Avoidance is a kind of art at which I have become a master. Avoidance is not the same as procrastination. I know, because that is also something of which I am a stunning example.

There is a particular thread of fear that gathers the fabric of avoidance. Procrastination might feel boredom, or insecurity, or even apathy. However, avoidance snags at the back of my gut and pulls delicate, silver hooks up into my chest.

I understand why.

My face is flushing as I write these words because I understand the why of this particular avoidance. Maybe it is the reason for all of them.

Writing to you in this blog displays ON PURPOSE what I have spent forty years hiding. It is something I do with flair. If you were talking with me, you would never know that I am busy hiding. I’m a natural.

Except sometimes. Sometimes, I can be wild and magical. When I write here I am the me who chants without words, and takes her place in the circle, staring into the flickering fire of a full moon gathering. I am the one who scuffs her feet in the dirt and bleeds without shame.

Hello, lovely. It is so wonderful to know you.


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