"Not feelin' the goat, mon"

It's been almost a month since I blogged, and I feel quite guilty.  But you see, I just haven't been "feelin' the goat, mon."  (Link to delightful story below on that wonderful quote.)

Everyone who blogs (and isn't this truly just about everyone these days?) approaches his/her blog with an individualized approach.  Some blogs are specific - sewing, carpentry, knitting, etc. - sort of hobby related.  Fans tune in to read what other people are accomplishing in that chosen hobby and to perhaps get inspired.  Then there are blogs that are all about the kids or grandkids, or blogs that feature lovely photographs, or blogs that revolve around theology or philosophy discussions.  There are as many different blogs on the Internet as there are people in the world.

When I created this blog in 2005, I had one purpose:  To outdo my sister, of course.  She had been asked to learn about the art of blogging at her work, and so as a "guinea pig" endeavor, she started a blog of her own, detailing her woodworking project of building a big desk/shelves complex to fill a wall in her house.  The idea of a blog intrigued me, and so I thought, "OK, I can do that, too."   She has long since dropped out of the blogosphere (although the carpentry project turned out to be stunning), and here I am still plodding along.  I originally kept with a theme of simplifying, since at the time, we were trying to downsize and sell our Victorian grand dame of a house - the adventure of which provided much blog fodder (as well as trepidation, angst, anxiety).  As I was writing, I realized that I was taking my life experiences and trying to learn from them, putting my fears and doubts and serendipities on the screen as a way to clear my head and deal with circumstances.  The simplicity idea grew to include my response to aging, becoming a grandmother, frustration with my procrastination and perfectionist tendencies, fond memories of long ago, and a desire to appreciate my blessings.  It began to represent the whole of my life, encompassing the last year in my 89-year-old mom's stay with us in Maine.

I can't blog every day because I would have nothing to say.  I can't even seem to blog every week on a regular basis unless I feel there are words in my head that need to get put down somewhere.  Maybe a recent experience in my life or a comment from a friend or family member will plant a seed in my mind and I think, "There is something for me to learn from this" and a blog post will follow, because, I figured, maybe someone else could benefit from this insight too.   My blog involves a great deal of introspection.

Therefore, I refuse to blog when I have nothing to say.  The wonderful thing about a blog is that, unlike a newspaper or other media, there are no deadlines.  Sometimes if I'm inspired I could blog 7 posts in 7 days; other times, like now, it can be a month or more before I feel ready.

Thus I just say that "I'm just not feelin' the goat, mon."  This quote is from a wonderful story here that Ed and I read several years ago.  The story explains a lot about why food tastes better when it's cooked with love - and how when one attempts to do something simply because it's "expected" when the inspiration is just not there, the end result is lacking in some way.  There are times to push yourself and times to stay put.  The key is knowing when to do what.

By the way, if you click the link and read the story, you'll understand why homemade food cooked by someone who loves you is better for you than fast food from a burger joint.  For one thing, who do you think prepares and cooks the food at most burger joints?  Teenagers who would rather be anywhere but at work.   I can't imagine much love goes into any of those things on the menu - no matter how many hugs Ronald gives to the world.   

I assure you, my readers (who number less than the fingers on one hand), that I will never blog unless I feel I have something worth saying.  It may take a long time between posts, but when you're not feelin' the goat, you're just not feelin' the goat.