Blog. This word reminds me of the infamous “Blerg” that Liz Lemon often recites in the tv show 30 Rock when she is disappointed  with her life situation or when those she surrounds herself with at work have really f*&$ed up and she is left to pick up the pieces.

This is my first blog post and to be completely honest I am not really sure what a blog is supposed to be, who reads this and how the hell they find it through the vast unknown we call the internet? So what am I doing here then? Good question.

I am stepping outside my comfort zone, purposefully. Looking to grow and expand, to try new things. To be vulnerable. It’s hard. Writing is not my strong suit. I was never one of those eight year old girls who wrote books or cut out articles and glued them into a notebook to create newspapers. I was a Barbie kind of girl. Spending an hour to pick out the perfect outfit and shoes that would impress Ken most,  brushing and styling Barbie’s hair and on occasion, cutting it. And of course, creating serious love triangles between Barbie, Ken, and all the other Barbies who were not the “chosen” ones that afternoon. I have never been a verbally expressive person except perhaps as a young girl taking on the role of Barbie. This blog is my voice, my Barbie in a peculiar sort of way.

As I began to write this first post I sat on a bench at the park watching my own eight year old son play. I say play quite loosely. You see my son is not your typical child, he is more introverted and sensitive and might I mention quite discerning when it comes to playmates. As I watched he navigated the crowd of children somewhat timidly looking for the “perfect” one. You know, the lone adolescent boy in the sea of  sticky toddlers and sweet little girls in pink dresses. As his eyes scan the children he looks for the most likely candidate to initiate his bizarre declaration of interest which begins by swinging his stick and practicing moves as if he were a life size Nanjago character amongst a proverbial sea of Polly Pockets.

Then it hit me. He was looking for connection. His titillating dance, his discerning eye was looking for the most likely candidate that  he would connect with. Someone to accept him as he is. Someone maybe just as particular in taste as he was. Today my boy found connection while swinging his wooden nunchucks.  He found  not one but two other boys willing to run hide and play amongst the tall grasses, trees and stumps. He left the park two hours later happy (hungry) and fulfilled. Today was a good day.

Other times we are not so fortunate. In the rare cases when the dance goes unheeded, he leaves in a forlorn state. Feeling rejected and disappointed  and at times he has surmised that he was not “good enough” to play with. In those instances it takes Mommy to pick up the pieces and give him the love and encouragement he needs to keep his chin up. Blerg.

We all search for connection in life. Sometimes we find it within the likely candidates and sometimes we don’t. Connection does not have to come in grandiose fashion on the back of a gallant steed ( or in this case a stick wielding adolescent). Sometimes all it takes is a smile, a touch or a simple act of kindness to connect with another human being. The more relevance we find in each moment  and the more we are able to extend outside ourselves to touch others the more we tap into the source, our authentic selves. Maybe then we will no longer need anyone there to “pick up the pieces” because we rarely feel rejected, afraid or alone.

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