A thank you to my friend, and reminder to myself

March 31, 2009

Writing for myself makes me happy, and stretching my imagination into the ether keeps me grounded. Unfortunately, this is something I have forgotten over the past few months, or seemingly tried to. I told myself that I have more important (scholarly) reading and writing to do. The result was not that I actually accomplished more, or better versions, of these things. Instead, I resented that these were things I needed to be doing, had said I would be doing; and so I spent my time procrastinating, pretending it was to relieve the stress of how I supposedly spent my time. By not taking the time for myself in the first place, I ended up trying to steal it from myself later.
I have a friend to thank for reminding me about the joys of simply writing for its own sake, although I doubt that was his intention at the time. In the two years since I met him, I have never known him to be angry or upset. This is not to say that he has not been, simply that I have not been aware of it if or when it happened. In this and in so many other ways, he is a far better person than I. It’s my belief that one of the reasons for this is because he takes the time to enjoy life, especially the simple pleasures, in the middle of everything else he does. He does not shove it to the margins, or under the bed to be ignored until one has time to dig it out, dust it off, and take it around the block. Because, let’s face it, if this is the case, you never find the time to actually live your life as you want it to be. The enjoyment of the simple things, the important things, the things one does for oneself, was brought home to me when he saw me writing, and asked what about. The truth of my answer hurt me- I was wrapped up in lesson and paper planning. I had resorted to this because I had the itch to write something, and I had put aside the rest of life for so long that nothing else could find its way from my fingertips. When did these become the only topics that I could think to put on paper?
So many times I have been tempted to write, but stopped myself when it became clear that I would have to work for the words. I forgot the necessity of priming the pump. As such, please bear with this disjointed and hesitant missive and take it for what it is – the jar of water needed to draw forth the rivers that flow below. I’ve not written - really written, feeling the words course from brain and lips and fingertips – for far, far too long. I have missed the sheer joy of word play, the lilting waves of prose, and the sense of simultaneous calm and excitement that the possibilities of a well-turned phrase can arouse. Here and there, I agonize over a word, but the agony becomes bliss as the sentences calm my roiling thoughts. I revel in the ability to dream about, obsess over, and be spontaneously inspired by the creation of tangible texts from ephemeral thoughts. I am grateful that, despite my negligence, the desire to do so has not thrown up its hands in disgust, leaving a “Dear Jane” letter on the way out.
And so, although chances of you reading this are slim to none, thank you, my friend, for reminding me (whether you meant to or not!) of the need for simple pleasures, for time for ones’ self, and the need to put living back into the middle of life.