This week marks seven years since I’ve written in my space, Being Rudri. I remember my first post and the swirl of emotions I felt memorializing my grief about losing my father. That year the landscape of my life felt hazy, blurred and lacked definition. In a matter of a few months in 2009, I transitioned out of my legal career, moved to Arizona after living in Texas all my life, lost my father and my newly widowed mother decided to live with us. The uncertainty which accompanied those days felt as if the toy spindle losing control and nothing I did could stop the frenzied momentum.
So I channeled every tear with a word. I didn’t know if a single person listened to my pain, but I needed a forum to express the emptiness. I’d unravel a piece of my sadness, lacing together what it meant. Most of the time, there wasn’t a neat bow. The shoestrings remained free, dangling, unable to connect. The words offered an open permission to confess. I learned to use the blank page as my confidant, therapist and friend.
I’ve said this in the past. This space saved me. In the early months after losing my father, my entire world appeared as a disjointed puzzle. I confronted thoughts on mortality, melancholy, the pendulum swinging between sadness and happiness and the texture of not only embracing loss, but understanding how I morphed into another person because of it.
I still miss my father every single day. The grief lingers and blackmails you into shedding tears. But I attempt to channel this melancholy in this space, as well as in my essays and memoir. Writing is power. It helps quiet the noise and allows a small window in understanding uncertainty.
Because of my writing here, I’ve connected with unexpected people who’ve enriched my writing and personal life. I count these people in my tribe because even though we have never met in person, they get me. And as I age and stand in the talk stalks of midlife, I need people who understand all of my working parts, the ones that squeak and the ones that sing. And because I write, I’ve had conversations people in my real life, as well as strangers who find solace by sharing how they feel about their own personal losses.
There is always talk in the blogosphere about abandoning an existing blog. In the days of digital overwhelm, reading a blog might seem like “just another thing” to add to an already long list. I’ve noticed a decline in comments and readership, but this fact doesn’t bother me. Writing this blog creates a pathway to appreciate the process. This is where I confess my becoming and explore how I navigate my personal joy and turmoil. It’s a corner of the universe I dub completely mine and the space embraces me with open arms.
To that end, I’ve realized I’m fiercely loyal to this space because it has taught me how to live. Its extended a hand and said, “Come on – you got this.” I see the beauty and the madness because writing has taught me to pay attention to what exists beyond my knowledge – the cerulean sky, the edge on the mountains and the brilliance of the sun. Acknowledging the infinite external terrain helps cushion my fall. It’s a metaphor for strength and fragility, an apt reminder to sink into the present without worrying how the next moment might appear.
I am filled with gratitude seven years later. Thank you so much for reading and commenting and learning with me. The kaleidoscope is still blurry, but I am able to identify the edges with a little more clarity. Here’s to seven years. Thank you for listening.
Welcome! I am a lawyer turned freelance writer, essayist, and editor. On staff at Literary Mama and the co-founder and co-editor of the literary journal, The Sunlight Press, my essays and reported work have appeared in The Washington Post, The Lily, Saveur, Civil Eats, Brain, Child, ESPN and elsewhere. I am currently at work on a memoir on grief and culture and how it provides perspective on life’s ordinary graces. I invite you to appreciate the ordinary with me. I hope my daily practice of seeing the magic in the mundane helps you celebrate and find more of these moments in your life too.
Happy seven years! I cherish our connection and friendship.
It’s been an honor to share this space with you, to watch you grow, and stand by your side the way you have stood by mine. Xoxo
Likewise, Ayala! So grateful and glad that we’ve connected. xoxo
I read your blog regularly. This is my favorite so far. My mom died the same your as your father. Much of this resonates. I am glad that I can look forward to more of your observations in the days to come.
I am sorry for your loss, Pam. I do feel grateful that some of my pieces offer comfort. Thanks for letting me know. xo
Wow seven years!!!! Congrats, my friend. I cherish your words in this space, and I cherish blogs like yours. Please don’t go anywhere!
xo A.
Thanks for your kind words, Alisa. I appreciate our friendship and your support. xo
Ah, Rudri. Perfect. Happy Seven Years! I’m at 6.5. I’ve noticed a decline in comments and readership as well, and I can’t imagine it. I know my blog is a bit of a career, but at least once or twice a week, it’s also my space to just be me. And to channel my own melancholy. And joy. I love coming here and I’m glad you still do too.
You say it perfectly, Tamara – “It’s also my space to just be me.” I think that is why I continue too. Thank you for your kind words and wishes. xo
Happy seven years Rudri. I am following your blog last two years and almost every time you struck a chord in me. Good luck and many more years to come❤️
Appreciate the wishes, Vani. Thank you for reading and commenting! xo
This is beautiful, Rudri. I could completely relate, having also been blogging for a similar length of time and having heard similar sentiments about abandoning blogs. Recently I had an acquaintance ask me if I’m still blogging, and while the nature of my commitment to my blog has evolved, I cannot imagine life without it, with the connections and contemplations it has provided me.
At the core, I believe continuing to blog offers a safe place and refuge. For those of us who feel a calling to keep writing (even when very few may be reading), it contributes to our process as writers and to our personal development. Thanks for adding your voice.
Rudri, I’m so glad to know you. Your words and your pain. The way you write about your father and your enduring grief (it never ends) makes me feel less alone with my grief for my mother. Congratulations on 7 years, on how writing can save and guide a life, and this lovely line that captures my own feelings about blogging: “This is where I confess my becoming and explore how I navigate my personal joy and turmoil. It’s a corner of the universe I dub completely mine and the space embraces me with open arms.”
Dana,
I think we all seek to feel less alone, especially when grieving. This blog has certainly saved me in more ways than I can express. Thank you friend, for your words, camaraderie and continued support. xo
Happy Anniversary, Rudri! I’m so happy that this wonderful blog has brought you joy. Your words have touched and inspired me over the years. I’m so glad you’re here 🙂
Thanks, Windy! Your continued support has helped me navigate my personal and professional life. Grateful for you!
Congrats on seven years! I love your explanation for what keeps you in this space. So beautifully said.
Thanks, Nina. Appreciate your support and friendship during the past seven years. xo
Beautifully written
Thank you!
Happy 7 Year Anniversary! Your words are so appreciated and I thank you for continuing to listen to your heart and sharing it with us!
Thanks, Suzanne. Appreciate your support! xo