Tuesday, November 25, 2014
The Inside of My Brain
This will be the last in the series of unedited thoughts I completed as part of a beginning of year writing challenge. Now back to our regular programming.
I have heard it said that, on a spiritual level, a heart attack is the sign of a literal broken heart. Something in one’s life is not working. Something is not right.
I do, then, what I always do when I need to process my world. I write about the dream.
We are certain that if there is such a thing as past lifetimes, we have traveled many of them together.
It is said we never know the value of a thing until it is gone.
In this particular case, these words would ring truer than they had ever rung.
I wonder how much our differences would matter if we were the last two people on earth. I wonder if you would come to me, if you would share, if you would allow me into your world and if I, in turn, would allow you into mine. Would it matter anymore the issues you have with the things I have done? Would it matter the color of skin, the political bent, the religious thought? When it is the two of us and nothing more, what is so important that divides your heart and mine?
Seems I am always waiting. Waiting for summer. Waiting to finish this darned degree. Waiting until the kids are out of the house. Waiting until I find an agent. Waiting for the stars to align and the Universe to decide it is ready for me to do what I came here to do. Waiting for other things I cannot share. With so much time spent waiting, what about now?
What am I doing with my “Now?”
(this would be the one day I actually forgot to pen my words)
I penned a novel at the age of seven. I would share it now except that my mother is more of a minimalist than I. May The Adventures of the Pickle Family rest in peace. I have written in one form or another since. My words have graced diaries, journals, articles that were never published, books I would toss in the trash, blog entries, and a good number of online and in print magazines. And, yet, to this point, my words have pretty much remained my own.
Have I suddenly turned psychotic? Do I need help? I have no one to whom to turn.
The inside of my brain is much like my kitchen fridge. It has magnets from all my favorite places holding photos, quotes, and memories from the most important characters in my life. It holds the photo of that time in San Francisco when all four of my children stood at water’s edge while my husband and I watched with pride from afar the family we had raised. It holds the boys skipping stones at Bar Harbor, the girls walking the beach at Nag’s Head. This brain of mine has so many memories clipped to it that it overflows with joy and smiles and family times. It also, however, has quotes and clippings and sayings from many of my family and friends, words that will never come down until I decide they do.
You may have said a word to me in passing, shared a confidence, or offered advice. You have no idea the thoughts that are stored in this head of mine. Words that you have long ago forgotten, I hold dear. To the one of you who told me to look in the mirror and to love and protect the little girl I saw there, thank you for that. I think of this little girl often. I think of how I talk to her and how I show her love. I ask myself if I am protecting her in the way I would protect a daughter of my own. To the one of you who said, “For the record, keep writing.” Those words move me every time I swear to throw away the pen. I hear them when I am at my lowest in my writing. I hear your words to quit my whining and get back to the page. They keep me at the keyboard. They keep me believing that someone wants to hear what it is I have to say and that, maybe, I am a writer.
I feel so ready to move to a different place in my life. I told you once I wanted to do something big. I think it’s time.