At Home on Hill Haven

Musings, ramblings, and pontifications on motherhood, unschooling, farming, sustainability, spirit, and life in general...

Location: northwest Georgia, United States

I'm a living-working-breathing mom, writing, mothering, teaching, and soul-searching from our home in northwest Georgia. We are whole-life unschoolers, which basically means our kids actually have a say in what happens to them (it actually means infinitely more than that, but's it's a starting point for discussion). We are also hardcore environmentalists, anti-industrialists, trying to escape from our dependence on petroleum, manufactured products and other non-sustainable practices. We homebirth, homeschool, and homestead, and try to make sense of it all, in a constant whirlwind of chaos.

Monday, January 12, 2009

I Just Don't Know.

So I haven't been blogging; if you know me, which I expect most of you do (otherwise how did you ever find me, right??), you know why. (Not to exclude you if you don't: I've started a natural grocery/coffee bar. Yes, in this economy. Yes, I am completely insane, but that is so not noteworthy anymore.) Every now and then, even with my lack of posting, I'll get a new comment on an old post (as just happened) and I'll think, I should go write something. However, I write so damn infrequently now that literally thousands of little word-children clamor to come out all at once, with such a ridiculous cacophony that I can't hear just one storyline and get a quick blurb out that's remotely coherent. So, I sigh, and mutter, and grouse, and don't write. Thus the title. I don't know what's going to come out, and I doubt I could figure out what to call it even after it's done, so I decided to not let that get in my way. Now here I am writing sheer drivel for the sake of posting, lest this blog become completely dead. Ah well. Perfectionism is for those who wish to avoid actually doing anything. (Ask me how I know.)
Needing to know what something will be before attempting to produce it-- now that sounds ridiculous, does it not? But I have done this my entire life, and I am experienced enough (note the avoidance of any reference to actual age there) by now to know that I am not alone. What is that about? Can you think of-- no, can you admit to a time when you've done this? Why did you do it? A need to be in control? Fear of failure/success? Fear of reprimand/repercussion(s)? Sometimes I think I fear not failure, but mediocrity. What if the writing doesn't suck, what if it's just blah? And of course, by extension, what if I am just blah? Say it ain't so! What if it serves no purpose, changes no one's life? What if-- dare I even type it-- no one ever reads it? Was it worth the effort, the overcoming of physical and mental and emotional obstacles to produce one tiny morsel of overly edited prose, for it to remain unread?