Yesterday, my husband and son met up with me at the park for a walk just as I was finishing a photo session. It was not the most beautiful of days, classically speaking. It was damp, a light drizzle coming down, and there was a chill in the air. But the autumn leaves and the quietness of the morning made up for it...oh, and the company :) Here is what I jotted down in my journal afterwards.
A walk in the woods, amidst the falling leaves and misty rain. A moss covered tree. A splash of yellow, orange, red. A carpet of color, a canopy of fire misted with the tears of heaven. A chill breeze. A cold nose, rose blooming on a pale cheek. Wood grained with age, mossy fingers creeping up its spine, tiny spiders darting to and fro, in and out. Delicate ripples on the water's visage, rain drops polka-dotting the surface, fish gliding silently beneath. Leaves dancing on the breeze tangled with raindrops in a gentle waltz. A red-lipped smile escaping from tiny heart-shaped lips, a giggle of excitement drifting upwards toward to the clouds. Fingers intertwined, rough skin caressing smooth...a sigh of regret, a look of hope, a smile of reassurance.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Monday, October 28, 2013
Rebuilding
We all define ourselves in many ways - wife, mother, adventurer, teacher, reader, friend, photographer, daughter, world traveler (I wish), romantic, nerd...the list goes on. As our lives move forward and we venture down various unknown paths, those definitions change.
Although my labels have shifted with time like anyone else's, for most of my life, I would have defined myself as a writer. But for countless reasons, I have not truly been able to say that for quite some time. Children, chores, errands, life...have all gotten in the way. Fatigue has robbed me of my desire to pick up a pen or put down my thoughts via the click click click of a keyboard. It always seems so tedious when I can barely keep my eyes open. Who has time to think...let alone write...and then edit and rewrite? And besides, who cares what I think anyway?
I know some of my former students - the ones who I pushed so hard, graded so mercilessly, bleed red pen for each day just to teach them to write well - would die to hear me admit this. They're probably letting out a huge "HA! I KNEW it!" right about now.
Well, that may all be true...and then some. Yes, it is tiresome. Yes, it does take time...and work. Time and work I definitely don't have room for in my cluttered and chaotic life. So why? Why in the world would I want to squeeze one more thing into my already overbooked day? And did I mention, "Who cares what I think anyway?"
Because the truth is... it's not about the people reading it at the other end. It's not at all about the clicks on my page or the recognition. It's not about the pats on the back or the positive feedback. No one really needs to read my writing but myself. The real truth is, I need it to survive. I need it to be me.
When we give so much of ourselves to those we love, when we put the needs of family, friends, clients, society before our own needs, we often reap massive rewards. But we may also lose pieces of ourselves in the process. And so, to make a long story short (which I almost never do ), I became a teacher, got married, had two children, and started a business. I poured my heart and every ounce of my being into taking care of people, doing a "good job" (which in my mind means nothing short of a "spectacular job")...basically, getting things done. And in turn, I forgot to take care of myself - my heart, my mind, my soul.
Recently, I experienced a crisis of the heart...and soul. The chasm left behind was vast. And as I struggled to mitigate the pain and fill the void, despite the dirt that still trickles from it each day, I realized that the crack started long ago. It started when I no longer took the time to nourish my soul through reading, writing, and art.
So here I am...trying to start anew. Trying to put back the pieces of a girl I once knew. I'll never be the girl I once was, nor do I want to be. Why would I ever want to give up all that I have learned? Some people fear getting older; some people hide from it. But though the road has been littered with as many potholes as a Pennsylvania highway, I have only become better because of it. But I must stop rushing about and take time to nourish my inner self. If that means giving up some Facebook and Twitter time, then so be it. If that means watching a little less mindless TV at night, would that really be a loss?
I recently dusted off my journal and sat down to sketch. God, did that feel good. I've never been an artist by any stretch of the imagination, no matter what my 7-year old daughter may say. But art holds a special power...it calms the waves of my soul. Like writing, it brings me peace. Today, as I diligently sat guard in my 2-year old son's room (just so he'd take a nap), I put pen to paper and cataloged my morning. As the minutes passed, I could feel the tension slip down from my shoulders and out onto the page. Peace. Serenity...if only for a few moments.
There is nothing in the world like the sense of peace that flows through you when you're doing something you're meant to do. Writing is a part of me...and will always be. How could I have forgotten?
Although my labels have shifted with time like anyone else's, for most of my life, I would have defined myself as a writer. But for countless reasons, I have not truly been able to say that for quite some time. Children, chores, errands, life...have all gotten in the way. Fatigue has robbed me of my desire to pick up a pen or put down my thoughts via the click click click of a keyboard. It always seems so tedious when I can barely keep my eyes open. Who has time to think...let alone write...and then edit and rewrite? And besides, who cares what I think anyway?
I know some of my former students - the ones who I pushed so hard, graded so mercilessly, bleed red pen for each day just to teach them to write well - would die to hear me admit this. They're probably letting out a huge "HA! I KNEW it!" right about now.
Well, that may all be true...and then some. Yes, it is tiresome. Yes, it does take time...and work. Time and work I definitely don't have room for in my cluttered and chaotic life. So why? Why in the world would I want to squeeze one more thing into my already overbooked day? And did I mention, "Who cares what I think anyway?"
Because the truth is... it's not about the people reading it at the other end. It's not at all about the clicks on my page or the recognition. It's not about the pats on the back or the positive feedback. No one really needs to read my writing but myself. The real truth is, I need it to survive. I need it to be me.
When we give so much of ourselves to those we love, when we put the needs of family, friends, clients, society before our own needs, we often reap massive rewards. But we may also lose pieces of ourselves in the process. And so, to make a long story short (which I almost never do ), I became a teacher, got married, had two children, and started a business. I poured my heart and every ounce of my being into taking care of people, doing a "good job" (which in my mind means nothing short of a "spectacular job")...basically, getting things done. And in turn, I forgot to take care of myself - my heart, my mind, my soul.
Recently, I experienced a crisis of the heart...and soul. The chasm left behind was vast. And as I struggled to mitigate the pain and fill the void, despite the dirt that still trickles from it each day, I realized that the crack started long ago. It started when I no longer took the time to nourish my soul through reading, writing, and art.
So here I am...trying to start anew. Trying to put back the pieces of a girl I once knew. I'll never be the girl I once was, nor do I want to be. Why would I ever want to give up all that I have learned? Some people fear getting older; some people hide from it. But though the road has been littered with as many potholes as a Pennsylvania highway, I have only become better because of it. But I must stop rushing about and take time to nourish my inner self. If that means giving up some Facebook and Twitter time, then so be it. If that means watching a little less mindless TV at night, would that really be a loss?
I recently dusted off my journal and sat down to sketch. God, did that feel good. I've never been an artist by any stretch of the imagination, no matter what my 7-year old daughter may say. But art holds a special power...it calms the waves of my soul. Like writing, it brings me peace. Today, as I diligently sat guard in my 2-year old son's room (just so he'd take a nap), I put pen to paper and cataloged my morning. As the minutes passed, I could feel the tension slip down from my shoulders and out onto the page. Peace. Serenity...if only for a few moments.
There is nothing in the world like the sense of peace that flows through you when you're doing something you're meant to do. Writing is a part of me...and will always be. How could I have forgotten?
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