Being neither twenty-one nor fifty-one leaves a girl in an interesting position. While she is young she has passed that point in her life when she was just enthusiastically entering adulthood. —When her ideals were sharp and immovable. —When the world was an open place. —When the sky certainly seemed the limit and she had not  yet learned the tragedy of the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Those in or approaching their fifties are no longer seen as old and patriarchal in a modern world that, without the wanted evidence of a cane and orthopedic shoes, styles anything before sixty-five as “young.” However, becoming fifty seems to actually still carry some sort of social and cultural meaning. Turning thirty also used to mean something, but now thirty has become a sort of impotent signpost on the landscape of life. Perhaps the thirties should be renamed the Twenty-tens. Certainly in western society it would seem appropriate.

In spite of all this, on approaching thirty-two, a girl like me still finds herself looking around, examining her accomplishments be they many or absolutely nil. She gets the feeling, almost like a phantom pain or the evidence of some long lost vestigial appendage that by this time she should have the proof of having contributed to mankind in some way.

She checks her list. Has she become someone of power, wealth or renown? Certainly not. Her bank balance has gone form being ridiculous to downright frightful. Has she distinguished herself in either education or career? Not exactly. Okay, not at all. Has she walked down an aisle, exchanged vows, laid plans for future posterity and begun bringing forth noble statesmen, preachers, rulers or reformers to join the human race? Alas no. With her list exhausted and in danger of becoming too much in awe of her seeming lack of “value” to the world around her, she once again takes inventory. After doing so she concedes that it seems she has very little to show that she has made any lasting impact on the world. —Very little, except some notebooks, a pen and a laptop.

Uncertified, untrained and unlooked for she decides to take action. Her tool will be communication. She will communicate anything and everything that appeals to her global senses and general musings with the determination not to become lost to everything beyond her city block or village square. And so a blog is born — or rather— reborn. the humble and unknown, this blog connects the small individual to the large events that effect millions world wide. And though they do not know her name, she will tell and retell the stories that shape our day in her own way and with her own focus. She will become a teller and, in some ways, a shaper of history.