I am struggling right now. My world seems noisy to me and I keep finding myself sitting in the creamy calm of the bedroom I have spent the past three days decorating. Prettifying. Beautifying. Soothing…
Now the room is pale and calm. My Mums yellow quilt pulled over the bed and two tall narrow chests painted cream standing like sentries guarding either side of the room. I am hiding here. Retreating here when I have delivered Finley to school and closing the door on the world, to sip tea, read books, weep a little and worry. Mostly about how to mow the lawn. While it might seem impossible, I have managed to get to almost forty-five without ever using a lawnmower. I feel rather stressed about the possibility of mowing the wire and electrocuting myself to a frazzle!
In times like this I have to resist temptation to re-invent my own wheel. To lay the blame for all manner of unrelated emotional muddle upon Brocantehome. (How odd that something I so adore should become my virtual punchbag). Blogging has seen me through so very much. Break ups and break downs. Death, drama and house moves. Above all it has been here to help me see the beautiful ordinary. To document my days and to remind me what matters. I love it. Even after thirteen years online, turning up here daily sometimes just to look at it, I love it. But at times like this, when my head feels loud, I almost hate it. Blogging you see is the most demanding of Mistresses. And as the years have gone by, it has become screechy, and complicated. Not what it was. Partly because of the nature of this ever-changing beast and partly because in my own madness, in times when life has felt secure – I have had enough energy to complicate it in a way I can barely manage when my world belly flops as it has right now. A fact I am utterly mortified about writing down but have no choice if I am to remain committed to telling the truth here.
Look in to the business of blogging these days and you will find an endless litany of advice about landing pages and email lists, analytics and affiliate programs. While bogged down in this endless mire it struck me that as bloggers we are no longer required to write, but to market. To be marketers. But do forgive my titty lip won’t you, but I don’t want to market. I want to write. I have never wanted to do anything other than write. Because I’m no good at selling. It embarrases me and from the moment I started selling furniture when I was nineteen, to now when I have to sell here to keep a roof over our heads, I still want to die the moment I actually have to say please buy this…
A few weeks ago in The Living Room I asked my lovely community what they would prefer… for me to continue working on The Salon and The Living Room or for me to go back to blogging daily and release all my work on Kindle? An overwhelming majority said blog please. Write daily. Share pretty things. Let your work live in our Kindles. Stop sending yourself around the bend! What little business acumen I have says that I have to listen to the majority and more than that, the part of me that IS going around the bend says the time is right to scale back all over again. That there is no shame in saying this didn’t work or that needs fixing and to simply go ahead and fix it.
Fixing things is my forte. I can fix dinners. Fix rooms. And fix technical problems. I can’t fix people, try as I might (and I do believe I am going to stop trying altogether), but I can fix myself. For myself. Can’t I? Last night on Twitter, a friend of mine, a Doctor, responded to one of my housekeeping tweets with the words, what about self? #selfcare and when I said I wasn’t sure I could manage self-care right now, he said peek in to it, try it out, see what happens…
Peek in to it.
Peeking doesn’t sound scary does it? Peeking sounds like something I could do. Not going gung-ho as I am so very prone, but dipping my toes in. Testing the water. Giving up trying to please and experimenting with pleasing myself, Writing again. Looking after myself first. Avoiding muddle. Angst. And drama. And seeking peace and truth.
Yes. A spoonful of my own medicine. Just what the doctor ordered.