truth

I would have started this blog long ago, but a combination of my perfectionism and my imperfections delayed it. Encouragement from my dear husband prompted it, finally.

“I don’t know who I am,” I often complain to him. Am I bookish? Sort of. Am I athletic? Sort of. Artistic? Sort of.  A journalist? Sort of. A homemaker? Sort of. Traditional? Sort of. Modern? Sort of. Some days I feel feminine, beautiful, and peaceful; some days I feel womanly, driven, and strong. Do I prefer a flowing skirt and a bouquet of daisies or hiking boots and a trail? Yes, actually, I prefer them both.

Clearly, I can’t start a blog. What do I title it? And how do I choose a color scheme and background art? A nice, soft ivory and rose? Photos of mountains being conquered? The infinity of options was paralyzing.

But it’s not about me, I remembered. This isn’t a blog of self-expression, and shouldn’t be. I can’t expect the world to be any more interested in me than in anyone else, and it’s not myself I’m trying to serve. What good will me and my personality do for the world?

Rather, I serve the truth. The truth is something higher than me, something outside of me, something I submit my own ideas to. Truth will do the world good. The purpose of any art, music, or literature, I believe, ought to be to seek and express a higher truth. And that’s what I intend with mine.