Dictionary.com defines an activist as: “an especially active, vigorous advocate of a cause, esp. a political cause.”
What an activist is not?
Someone with a wide audience already available to them but doesn’t use that audience until they publish a book and decides that as a way to market that book, it would be great to pretend to speak out for people while accepting large amounts of money to speak on this particular issue. Meanwhile, the individuals that you are speaking out for, have suffered a fate much, much worse than yours, however you will accept acolades of courage and bravery because most people do not know better.
That’s an opportunist.
It has been over a year since I have posted on this blog. How did that happen. I’m always one that intends to keep a blog – in fact, in the past when I first learned about blogging through Xanga, I posted armies of blogs per day, every day. I get comfortable where I am, then something inspires me to change. Try a different platform, something about the current blog that annoys me or simply just finding things I wish I could change and trying to start over and change them. It’s all lame, really, and a testament to the difficulty that I sometimes have in 1. committment and 2. following through. That being said, so much has changed in the past year, me not the least of them, that I crave the outlet to separate all of my thoughts and different aspects of my life without prejudice. I haven’t really had that much this past year, as my career took a path that I could have never predicted, so it time again.
I won’t bore you with a play-by-play of the events of the past year. As much as I love our home, I miss New Orleans so much. The streetcar, the visits with Miss Elizabeth at Blue Cyprus Books, Miss Norma’s Sno-Balls, the park and the zoo. I enjoy aspects of being here on the swamp – the added protection it gives me that I didn’t have before – something quite important when dealing with those people of our past whose mental stability comes into question each day as they act more and more like someone you simply do not recognize, as well as the ability to breathe deeply in a way that I couldn’t when we lived on Plum. I miss it. I have yet to really allow myself to call this place home, hoping one day to find ourselves back in the Big Easy when life has calmed down and ugly custody battles and Northern arrogance no longer dictates who, what, when, where and why of my life, but happy to finally be at a point in our life where we have moved forward into planting roots and owning a home and finding a community. Thirty minutes away from New Orleans isn’t far. It really isn’t. Sometimes, however, it is far enough to create a feeling of loneliness and longing for people, places and things.
At any rate, it is the right time to call this place my salvation on particularly bad days and my sanctuary on days when I simply need to write and thing and separate my thoughts of the confusion that often comes with over thinking.
And still, No regrets. Never.