Almost a year and a half ago, and entirely by accident, I started another blog. I started it, on Blogger, because it was the only way I could comment on the blog of a gifted niece (at the time; now I find that her most recent blog is down as well. Rachel: where are you?! UPDATE: Here she is!).
I gave this other blog of mine a silly name -- it was modeled after the way a young boy in my neighborhood mangled my last name. It was an opportunity to both poke fun at and escape from being me, and it also gave me permission, room, to explore poem and prayer in blogging.
Before long, my new blog developed its own persona, its own voice. I felt like I was channeling, not writing. People started reading it; I settled into a rhythm of writing, first taking a moment to shift, by degrees, into a meditative frame of mind, until the ordinary began to seem miraculous to me. I would look around me, and I'd write down what came in. I would not edit (much) or censor (at all), and I would not agonize.
I was absolutely free in this blog to pray and sing, to mourn and shout, and to let loose into the world the kind of feeling that we reserve for hallowed moments (preferring, perhaps, to neglect that all moments are hallowed, in their own way) and sacred spaces.
Amba, who for a while was the only one who knew that I write this other blog, encouraged me to publish some of its entries. So I did, with her help and editorial acumen. A rabbi friend, with a new book of her own, has given this book of my alter ego to several colleagues; others have found some solace in it.
But my rabbi friend was not all smiles at first. When I casually mentioned to her that I had published this small book of poems under a pseudonym, she was astonished, and a little hurt. Why would I do that? Who did I think I was -- the Clark Kent of free verse?! Didn't I want to share these moments with friends who encouraged me in my writing? I wasn't sure how to answer her.
At about the same time, I gave the book to another friend; I asked this friend if she liked it, and only when she said she did, did I tell her I'd authored it. She considered this cowardice on my part. She was probably right.
A couple of others have known of my dual identity for awhile; they figured it out, or just asked. It wasn't like I was Valerie Plame, or anything. It's a bigger deal to labor to keep this other blog separate and secret, as if it mattered, than to invite you there and not worry about it.
The more I've struggled not to reveal this other identity, the more dishonest I've felt. And that has begun to interfere with the whole purpose of the blog, and of writing, period.
So I invite you to go read Mr. Gobley -- my other, inner, truer, frailer self -- and go back whenever you like. I hope you enjoy it. I hope you'll consider buying the book; I hope you'll share it with friends.
It may not be your cup of tea. That's OK; most days, it's not mine either.
But on some days, it's the only place I can go to speak with that inner voice. If it speaks to you, so much the better.
UPDATE: Thanks to my blog-friends for your support. Both blogs will continue apace. In the meantime, I offer this piece of Mr. Gobley's, a tribute to my spiritual mentor, who would have been 99 years old today.
--T.A.