Thursday, July 16, 2009

The time has come, or gone; I can't tell which.

Here's something I wrote a few months before my college graduation. I clearly remember writing it and how I felt then. The words were pouring out of my pen - so quickly I had to sacrifice neatness just to keep up. The original is in a journal that's somewhere in the boxes waiting to be moved into the new house. It's been five more years since that day I looked back on the four years I spent in college and I don't have much more to add other than, yes, my children do grow this quickly.

September 26, 2004

I stopped to sit on a bench in the park. I never stop to sit on a bench. I hardly ever walk slowly, let alone stop completely.

Will my children grow this quickly? Four years old - just like that?

That's what anniversaries and birthdays are for - the “selahs” of life. Time to pause, think and consider what has been done and the future tomorrow. Where have you come from? Where may you go? And why? This is the time you appreciate the change, record it, and recognize it is good.

True, nothing is particularly special about the day itself; it's just another one - like the one before it. But it's in the days, one after the next, that life happens.

I guess the obvious question (but there are many questions) is: what did I do with this day? Some days are done. Some days may yet be, or may not. This day. Rejoice and be glad in this day1. Know why you live and then live for that with everything you have. Because the days add up.

As I sit on this crooked bench, twisted by the roots of the tree that shades me, amidst a sunny park, the hot sun on my hair but the breeze brings a taste, a slight edge, of winter chill. As I sit on this bench a leaf falls2 into my lap and I can't see the page anymore.

It's a perfect transition day. How does the weather know? It knows because it always has known. The weather, of course, brings its seasons. The seasons bring change and a memory's measure of time past.

Live in the moment. The radio show's host said this morning, "none of us ever live like it’s our last day." And she was right - I think. Why is that? We are either obsessed with the unchangeability of the past or caught up in how our perfectly planned future will transpire.

I used to care about where I wrote, when, with what and on what I wrote. Certain things were written in certain places. Divided up neatly. Now I don't. Any scrap and any pen. I think because I was meant to and only now am I just realizing. Really realizing.

(What is this? Am I getting caught up on the high school angst I never experienced?)

It is urgent, this feeling in me, to write write write. At times more urgent, at times nearly imperceptible. But it is too important to repress or ignore.

But really, who writes and "makes it"? Not me. Only the best of the best. I am not. I do not write to achieve, attain, publish or be recognized. I don't write for approval or because I was told to. I write because it is in me. If I do not, I get crowded.

Rooted, solid, grounded, sensible, down-to-earth people sometimes don't understand me - in parts. They bellow, "Get off the computer! You don't have time to write in your blog! Good grief, woman, you're writing about how you don't have time to write!" (I'm thankful because these people rope me to real reality. I'm thankful my fiancée is one of these people.)

And they are right. After all, they do want what is best for me and are trying to help. Sometimes3 I feel that it is best for me to write and it DOES help. They are right, I know, and I've even bellowed this to myself. But still I write.

I always have.
What makes me???
I do.
But WHY??

High school AP English teachers encouraged me towards a journalism/English/literature major in college. Thank God I had the foresight to know this would kill, or at least thoroughly squelch my desire to write. Instead, I majored in a rooted, solid, grounded, sensible major. Biology. Which I also get excited about... but how do I express my excitement? I write of course.

It is times like this I miss my friend Claire. True to her name, she never fails to eloquently and accurately state the conflicting feelings we shared. She was always more perceptive and articulate than I about things like this4.

It's rather alarming to discover a consistent ebb and flow of passion to write and NOT necessarily do what I've studied for the past four years. But it wasn't a mistake; that's not what I’m saying.

I know I'll write no matter what I do. But I still wish I knew why. Surely my writing could/would/should be beneficial to more than just me and possibly a few family members and good friends.

I guess it's OK to not know some things, especially at this point in my life.


1Psalm 118:24
2Fall. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer. Time. Days.
3But not always.
4"things like this." See what I mean? How inarticulate can I possibly be?

Posted by Beck at 12:09 PM

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