But then the wind took me traveling this summer to up-state New York, to a holy temple in the Delaware River Valley. One lunchtime, over a spectacularly colorful salad in a communal dining room, a monk called Wangden pointed out that a blog was surely in order. 'You're a writer?' he asked, fork in hand and giving me a knowing look. 'Then you need a blog.'
So here I am.
Call it divine intervention if you will, but the time has definitely come. My life has undergone an immensely schizophrenic shift in the past 18-months. I have transformed from manic arts writer for a magazine in the concrete canyons of Hong Kong, to wannabe novelist amid the pine trees of Southern Maine. An absolute 180 degree change from crazy city girl, to hermit lost in the American woods. A kind of reverse butterfly-effect, slipping back into the cocoon. I have been telling myself that I have nothing to write about (apart from that epic novel sitting in the astoundingly hard-to-access depths of my mind). But is that really true?
I think my run-in with the monk was a good jolt. Writing isn't about a buzzing social life. It doesn't require epic days filled with drama and activity. It's simply about learning to see clearly. It's about noticing the tiniest qualities that make up our lives, those countless passing moments and all the meaning that drips from them – and it's about us creating an honest reflection of it all.
So, here's to Wangden. And my (hopefully regular) attempts at being that moon.