Do you ever break promises? Sometimes I do.
I never break promises related to work, or money, or chores, or specific obligations to people in my sphere. I break big, important promises to myself and aspirational promises to others. The very worst kind of promise breaking.
Almost four years ago I started a blog on this site under the same title, Grey is the New Blond, and I began describing my day to day life during a three month solo stint living in the south of France. At the same time I began an episodic story tracing the life of my colourful grandmother and her off-spring, hoping to better understand my family dynamic and what made me who I am.
As it turns out there was quite a bit of interest in both topics. That was great because the writing of it was fulfilling a promise to myself to challenge my resilience and explore my skills as a writer. But when I returned to NZ, to family, and to work, my commitment fell away badly. Every day occurences continued to intrigue me, but day after day I failed to record them. I travelled, I lived, I observed, but I did not record. I found the technicalities of blogging and publishing daunting, and still do. But mainly I just let life overtake me. My resilience was not tough enough. I did not keep my promise to myself.
Then, a year or two back, I picked up the thread on a FaceBook page, also called Grey is the New Blond. It still exists and you can check it out if you choose. Along with my commentary on daily life, the story of my grandmother picked up pace. It was coming into my own life span, and I was getting excited. But then my enthusiasm got the better of me. I gave too much away for the comfort of some family members, who reminded me forcibly that in telling my story, I was also telling their story. And it was one they did not want told. I was hurt. They were hurt. But their point of view was valid, if wounding. So I stopped telling that story, and the rest of it soon ground to a halt.
Promise to myself broken again, but kept to others. Although that story is important to my wellbeing, I will not publish it here. It will be completed, but it is much harder without an audience. Not sure what that says about me.
What I do intend to do, is to resume my commentary on live as it goes along. Perhaps not daily, but at least on a regular basis. It is not as if there is not plenty to talk about. From the rise of populist politicians like Trump all around the world, to the pandemic that is still out of control, so much of what we viewed as progress in my lifetime is slowly but surely being unwound. And there are so many other topics de jour, from the disappearance of the stash of plastic bags that used to live under the sink to the re-emergence of Crocs as a fashion statement ( I am wearing a pair as I type). Not to mention the exigencies of age – mine, my partner’s, and indeed my mother’s. Coupled of course with the mixed guilt and joy of being of that supposedly unfairly privileged generation, the baby-boomers. The first generation to approach death by old age clad in skin tight jeans, biker jackets and addicted to heavy metal. Go to a concert, any concert. You will see what I mean.
If you are interested, check it out from time to time. I am making another promise to myself. Keep living by keeping writing.