It’s Time For Bluebells

April Showers Bring May Flowers

{{ And my birthday brings bluebells. }}

April is a finicky month in Pennsylvania. Bouts of flurries mingle with streaks of heat forcing residents to alternate apparel between winter sweaters and summer shorts. I remember preparing to store away my winter clothes after several days of sunshine only to relinquish once again and throw on a turtle neck to bear the grid of winter’s endurance.

But despite severely oscillating weather patterns, infallibly the bluebells would emerge in our garden on time to beckon in the official arrival of spring, and subsequently, my birthday (April 30).

Bluebells are martyrs. They emblazon the stark gray of winter once again with the hues of life. Tiny, blue trumpets cluster together around a sturdy green stem slightly arching to bear the weight as the flowers continue to bloom. Their bloom is fleeting, only lasting two weeks on average: suddenly coating the floor of the garden with an ankle-high rug of indigo and departing as abruptly as they arrived.

As a girl, I always looked for bluebells to denote the official defeat of winter and to celebrate another birthday.

A Brief Reprise

My sabbatical from No Left Turn was a much needed one. Shortly after retiring, I finally secured a job that coddles my ambitions and furthers my passion for writing. (If I had not been emphatically taught that correlation does not prove causation, I likely would be wary to never blog again!) During the "off season," I took on a freelance writing gig as a travel writer for Examiner.com, fell in love with Twitter and moved into a new apartment by the beach in San Diego.

Life is... good.

Several times throughout the last three months, I'd frequented my own blog and considered posting; however, instead, I turned to the traditional comfort of a journal. Once again I armed myself with a pencil and scribbled away the woes and triumphs of my thoughts on faint lines streamed across the pages (perhaps consequence of spending my work days waltzing with a keyboard and mouse). But tonight, nestled with a glass of wine and an over-sized sweatshirt, an email from my dad inspired me to revisit my blog- if not permanently, then at least for tonight.

The email, titled "Spooky Dune" contained a draft of an adventure manuscript written by my 84-year-old grandmother. Originally she had intended to complete and present the story to my sister and me before we both reached puberty. Time passes too quickly, and only when she found herself with idle time after my grandpa passed away was she able to construct the story from start to finish.

A fan of my writing, and a supporter of my ambitions, she invited me to work with her, as her editor. Even though I'm sure she regrets the years that elapsed beyond her initial deadline, the opportunity to collaborate with my grandma is even more special.

A Moratorium

The inspiration for No Left Turn stemmed from watching the movie Julie & Julia. Like Julie, I was a young woman, discontent with the job I held and yearning to make public my passion and talent for writing. In Julie & Julia, Julie turns to blogging to her quench her thirst. Inspired, I was logged on and started my own blog.

I had no idea, at first, what theme I'd choose to guide my blog. But after attempts to channel my literary antics toward other topics, the undertones of my life kept surging within me, begging to be released. I couldn't ignore the pounding ache I'd awake with each day caused by the withdrawal of my college addiction. For four years, I had rode along the swell of academia, getting high off the fumes of dreams. The blog slowly allowed me to seep into what I thought would be a recovery...

There's a point toward of the end of Julie & Julia where Julie breaks down. The momentum has shifted, and suddenly she had allowed the release of the blog to consume her. Much like Julie, No Left Turn had consumed me. Instead of providing an introspective release, I internalized No Left Turn and the falls along the way became that much more amplified. It was after one considerable emotional breakdown when I realized I'd be 24 in a few months, and I was no closer than I'd been at 23... or 22... that I finally decided to pull the plug on the blog.

I don't plan to stop writing. I've been keeping diaries and journals since I was eight years old. In 5th grade, I raised my hand and announced to my entire class that I was an aspiring author. Writing is a part of me, and that passion could never be eroded. But the outlet has failed to ignite me with positive energy. And so, it is time to take a moratorium.

At the end of L'auberge Espagnole (one the BEST movies I've ever seen), Xavier realizes that he is not defined by only one part of his life- not his job, not where he lives, how he looks, dresses- he is defined by his journey in life. And even as a man, he still is the little boy who dreamed of writing books.

“When you are moving toward an objective...it is very important to pay attention to the road. It is the road that teaches us the best way to get there, and the road enriches us as we walk its length.”

– Paulo Coelho’s The Pilgrimage