It has been more than two years since I last posted. Recently, I made a commitment to myself to revisit the things that once gave me joy. Writing is one of them. Monday through Friday I teach a classroom full of 10th graders how to write. The academic writing that I teach revolves around structure, format, grammar, claims, theses, etc. What I miss is the journey of narrative writing. The cracks and crevices of language that live deep beneath the surface of characters on a page. I miss the freedom of writing without a clear path in mind; not knowing where the words will take you.
For the past few years, I have allowed stability to run my life. I sought structure and routine, and in doing so, I forgot the parts of myslef that allow creativity to take hold.
A “hiatus” is defined as a pause or gap in a sequence, series or process. The two years have just been a pause, not a stop, not a standstill, just a pause. Today, I choose to resume the parts of my life that I allowed to wane. It’s never too late to revisit the parts of yourself that make you, you.
I think how quickly things have changed for me. But that’s the personality of change, isn’t it? When it’s slow, it’s called growth; when it’s fast, it’s change. And God, how things change: some things, nothings, anythings, everythings…all the things change.” | David Arnold, Mosquitoland
When I was growing up, I was terrified of anything that would invoke change in my life. The simplest thing, like painting my bedroom, would cause me to panic. Every eve of the first day of school I would spend the day pacing the halls of my childhood home and the evening wrapped in my mother’s arms. Anything to help the nerves. It seems a little silly now.
David Arnold knew what he was talking about. Everything changes. Each day is a change in it of itself. Even the mundane ones. There are the days where we walk boldly in the face of change. But, then their are the monumental days that force change upon us. Someone we love passes away. It’s like a winged letter of change has been dropped at your doorstep. Signed. Sealed. Delivered in all of it’s pain.
I think that the one thing that I have learned despite the fact that change can still knock me off my feel. There are no shortcuts in life, particularly when it comes to growing up, and change is all part of that. It just amuses me that I was and still am a little terrified of something that I am surrounded by day-in and day-out. Maybe it’s the lack of control when it comes to certain changes, Or the fact that everything can change in a simple blink of the eye. Maybe I’m just rambling.
Maybe life is just built upon the foundation of changes and the ever-changing tomorrow for our “somethings, nothings, anythings and everythings.”
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
-T.S. Eliot “The Waste Land”
Today in my Poems about Cities class we are reading Eliot’s “The Waste Land.” I feel that the description of April is so appropriate for we find ourselves in April. The tease of April shows how transition is cruel and unforgiving. The snow has melted and all we are left to see is that lying beneath is death and decay left by our protective white covering. Snow protects us, and now it is gone. Our memories of days lost are evoked and our desire to reach our state of childhood again is fueled.
“The Waste Land,” is a very confusing piece of literature. Someone in my class referred to it as “Pretentious Persons Porn.” A high brow exposure of the failure of human sexuality. Yet, thought provoking and worthy of examination, in my opinion.