making magic out of the mundane.
A wistful look back on 2010s blogging life and using my past self as inspiration.
I often think back on the days of blogging. Before words and photos were deposited into Instagram stories and posts. When everything wasn’t immediately consumed in social-media-time, but needed to come through an RSS reader or be read by someone who made a point to go to the website itself and see if there were any new posts. There was a delay, a slowness, an intentionality about it. (Substack has a bit of this feel.)
I started my first blog in 2008, when I was studying abroad in South Africa and needed a way to share photos with family and friends (aptly named Ruth in Cape Town). As it turns out, the internet connection in Cape Town in 2008 was not very conducive to uploading digital photos, so the blog was less than robust.
But I started a new blog in 2009, when I was a senior in college working on an independent study in creative writing. It first was called A Facet of My Growing Age (always one with a penchant for the melodrama). It then was renamed Feather Spirit, and then Ruth Writes, and finally migrated to ruthpclark.com.
I was always writing a series. There was the one where I looked for things that made me happy, called Felicitous Findings. There was the one where I did a roundup of what happened over the weekend, called A Dapple of My Weekend. There was the one called Traversing Twenties, where I asked a whole bunch of friends and other bloggers to write guest posts on what they’d tell their twenty-something self. (Seriously a gem of a series, even now.)
Looking back, it’s a photo journal of my life. Nothing was too much, nothing was held back, I was exactly who I was. I took photos of my meals, photos of my lunch breaks, photos of water droplets in the bathroom sink as the sunlight hit them just right. I took a million and one selfies before forward-facing phone cameras were even a thing. I wore red lipstick practically every day and wasn’t afraid to try out different styles. I wrote openly and honestly, without shame or embarrassment holding me back. I read some posts now that at first glance seem cringey, but in reality I think they’re pretty adorably brave.
One titled “A date with myself,” from April 2011. My sweet, 23-year-old self wrote, “My Friday night: drinking white wine, making enchiladas, painting my nails, catching up on blog-reading, starting laundry, and watching movies with my kitties in bed. Why yes, I do enjoy my exhilarating weekends. (I may even go to bed early!)”
One titled “On going through, tapping into joy, and writing my own story,” from September 2012. My wise, 24-year-old self wrote, “For now, I'm just breathing through it, reminding myself that I am not missing out on anything or wasting time, because this is my life. Wherever you go, there you are. This is it. This is the work I have to do, want to do, need to do. To turn back through that tumultuous atmosphere, knowing how hard it was and how long it took.....that would be harder. My time right now is steeped so strongly in wisdom and medicine, I know I just need to be open to it. I need to be here now. I need to be open, to the joy and beauty and ease that's just beyond that cup of coffee or heart-shaped leaf or beaded bracelet. I need to move through, slowly and joyously and with trust.”
Seems there are some similarities between my innocent blogging self from way back then, and my current 36-year-old self. That Friday night sounds pretty familiar and pretty lovely, to be honest. And those words about staying present and being open…..well, they’re kind of words I could be writing right now, in this current chapter.
Wisdom from my self, to my self.
Eventually I began a weekly newsletter, much like this one, called Speaking Up. I even started writing online courses on personal growth and creativity that hundreds of people signed up for.
Somewhere along the way, though, I stopped feeling so bold. And less in a “I feel exposed” way, but more in a “I don’t feel so confident” way. I doubted my life, questioned my decisions, felt less than sure about writing down things like beliefs and musings and random thoughts. The 23-year-old who unabashedly shared selfies and spouted philosophies was replaced by a 31-year-old whose life hadn’t gone the way she planned, and went a bit silent. (And a global pandemic didn’t help.)
Writing was my way of making meaning. It was a way to process and turn inner churnings into creativity, making magic out of the mundane. I spent less time watching Instagram stories of people I don’t know and more time contemplating life, writing in my journal, taking photos in the woods. I took something that was just a topic of conversation in my latest therapy session and transformed it into an essay shared online, where friends and strangers left comments saying, Me too, we’re not alone. It felt like I had processed something, like something within me had been resolved.
I like to think that I’m getting back to that magic-making, in a way. This Substack was a start — not quite blogging, but not social media, either. I’m writing more than I have in a long time, even if that means just typing something up every other week. I’m journaling too, more than I have in a long time. I’m being intentional about taking photos again, and recently spent an absurd amount of time turning a bunch of meaningful Live Photos into a reel about healing from my heartbreak. (Truly though, the learning curve of things like elaborate reels is steeeeep.) I’m even dreaming about running an online course again, someday.
I’m making magic out of the mundane, again. Slowly but surely, valuing my own voice.
And I’m letting my innocent, naive, wise, brave, somewhat cringey 23-year-old self be my inspiration.
So glad you're returning to each really cool part of yourself that is wise and magical :)