Returning

In the past four years, I have made a more conscientious effort to “feed my soul” and focus on many of the joyful, creative acts that I have neglected for decades. That’s a long time, but now that I am in my 60’s, I’m thinking less about what I haven’t done and more about what I would like to do in these remaining years (God willing) on my winding journey here on Earth.

That might sound a little like the same thing; here’s the difference.

In my 40’s and 50’s, I put so much pressure on myself to do more and be more with every moment in every day. The problem was that I have always loved doing so many things – read, write, photograph, hike, teach, etc. – and there just weren’t enough hours in each day to do all that I wanted to do.

That led to gridlock. Paralysis. I felt like I could never do enough to show the world all I was doing, and that somehow translated into an ongoing series of failures.

I know. Stupid. But for a person who is hard-wired to please, it’s an impossible venture to ever feel like I am doing enough, making enough people happy, serving the masses in a way that benefits all.

The result? My health and wellness were taking a real hard hit. The more I tried, the worse I felt about everything. I was leaning too heavily into social media for validation and reciprocation. And when I didn’t feel like I was getting it (even when I was), it made matters worse.

In 2022, I was sick of the roller coaster. After a nasty stay in the hospital with diabetic ketoacidosis in February, I took the summer off and started hiking again. That, combined with a healthy diet and strict medicinal regimen, allowed me to understand the importance of self-care and pull back on the relentless efforts to please others (in the hopes that their happiness with me would somehow make me feel better about myself).

Well, the road back to me has not been a straight highway shot cruising at 70 mph to some promised land, but the detours and the hills I had been climbing were becoming less frequent – both internally and socially. By 2025, I was finding joy in sharing less and doing more for just me. I have rediscovered my joy of reading (for me), the joy of writing (for me), the joy of learning (for me). And that has made all the difference (for me), as Mr. Frost once alluded to.

This brings me to my blog, The Baltimore Writer. I have been blogging for over 20 years, and much like it has been indicative of my life, my posts here have been up and down, much like that roller coaster I’ve been riding. But lately (and by this, I mean in the last 5 years), my time spent here has not been frequent (I’ve written about this before, complete with data analytics).

With all of the progress I have made in worrying less about pleasing others, this blog has confounded me in how I should use it 1) to better or further my career; 2) to make a strong statement about things; 3) to narrow my focus and fill a niche in this very crowded space of writers and their words; and 4) to please my readers. Should it be about writing? Education? Reading? Life? Spirituality?

In other words, What is my intent, my focus, my purpose, my point in writing here in this space?

More gridlock. More paralysis.

Tonight’s answer: Not everything I do here has to be a lesson plan (or a lesson of any kind), or have intent, or a focus, or a purpose, or even a point.

And for sure: Not everything I do here needs to worry me about whether it pleases you. That sounds harsh, but it’s a new truth that I am coming to embrace more and more every day.

In social media lingo, I trust that if you don’t like it, you can just scroll on to the next post in the feed. I hope that gives you what you are looking for.

Maybe all of this is coming to the surface because, earlier today, I saw Percival Everett (Erasure, James, Trees, and other titles) at Goucher College here in Baltimore, MD. (HUGE shout out to the Foundation for the Baltimore County Public Library for making this happen.)

Tom Hall (WYPR) was the moderator, and he asked Mr. Everett about the evolution of his books and his writing, especially when it came to the expectations of his readers.

Percival Everett surprised everyone in the packed auditorium, I think, when he said that he didn’t really care that much about his readers. “I write for me,” he said, “and if you don’t like this book I’ve written, well maybe you’ll like the next one.”

So here I am writing for me and, well, Returning.

Returning to The Baltimore Writer. Returning to Self. Returning to all of you with little thought on intent, focus, or purpose.

I think I am just going to write in this space each day for the next 8 days and see what comes of it. Maybe I will ignite some new passion to share my thoughts with the world without worrying about pleasing any of you. Maybe they’re just thoughts where, at the end of each post, I simply say, “Huh.”

I’m on Spring Break. Let’s give this a whirl. No expectations. No genuflecting. No shares on social media to drum up a few extra likes and maybe even a comment or two.

I’m just going to write in this space for 8 days. And if you don’t like a post, simply do the scroll thing and move on. I’m not worried that you didn’t stay, and you don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings.

It’s all good. And I hope it stays that way.

Huh.