Maybe it’s the way Mother Nature is spitting at my window, taunting the trees, driving me further into my warm living room that is causing this melancholy cloud. Or maybe it is a box of old high school and college writing I dug out of the basement. I didn’t realize how much I missed school until I started un-sticking typed pages. There is work I don’t even remember writing, words invoking images probably best left hidden. If all I left behind in life was this box, people might wonder why I wasn’t ever committed. I wrote a lot of depressing poems. It appears that I had my heartbroken often and it’s clear that I wasn’t a very good girlfriend. I was much too serious, overwhelming and emotional. It was as if I was destined to be a wife all along. What teenage boy or college student is eager to be tied down to a teenage housewife? My heart aches just a bit now thinking about how little I thought of my future. There really was no plan.
However, it is in the few words of true creativity that I find the young woman who I wanted to be. There are moments of passion and peace. Maybe I don’t miss school – maybe I miss being accountable and being graded on spending time with my thoughts every day. Maybe I am missing being around people who think in metaphors and don’t laugh at me when I say things like “Mother Nature spitting”. I know that I didn’t save as much as I have written over the years. I’m perplexed as to why I salvaged some and got rid of others. And sadly, even if I had intended on keeping everything, it would have all been on floppy disks that are long gone and missing.
Missing: not present; absent. Lacking; wanting.
It seems clearer to me today that I am not missing anything more than motivation and courage. I have writing ready to submit, and yet I hide it away in my kitchen cabinet. I arrange and re-arrange my writing area and yet never produce. I waste time trying to define myself. Am I a musician or a writer? But why not both? Having the ability to play the oboe is simply being able to put sound to my soul rather than see it naked on the page.
Today, instead of having a pity party over a dusty box, I decided to dance. The rhythm was slow at first, fingers trembling over clicking keys as I typed one of my favorite poems, adding it officially to my “writing” file on the hard drive. Then the more I typed, the more comfortable I felt. I could see a piece of me in those words – a moment not lost or forgotten.
And then I submitted. There, it is done. We’ll see what happens next.