Sunday, January 22, 2012


Migraines suck. That's all.

Okay, well, anyone who knows me knows that is not all. Can't just write 4 words and call it a night.
But I don't want to type. I just typed this morning. But I went to bed at 9 and got the worst of the migraine pain over. So now it's almost midnight and I woke up hungry and I hate to waste a perfectly quiet house.

I love journaling. That's what I think of this as, not blogging. Blogging seems like something professional writers do and get paid lots of money for. Their blogs all decked out with lots of links and colorful ads and posts that have a clear message, with a beginning, middle, and end, and they all three go together. Yeah, that would not be this blog.

But I like to write out my thoughts. It was something drilled into me by Ms. Simpson and Ms. Myers way back all those years ago in high school. They were my English and Creative Writing teachers. I had Ms. Simpson for 9th and 11th grade Honors English, and Ms. Myers for 10th grade Honors English, 10th and 11th Creative Writing, and 12th grade AP English. Boy, would they be shaking their heads now. Maybe. Maybe not. Or probably. Because they were both very, very liberal. And I don't think we'd agree on much now. But they did teach me a lot.

I was always a reader. I cannot remember when I didn't have my nose pressed in a book. I do remember being told to "put that book down and go play!" I lived in a fantasy world of books. They spoke to me. I listened and spoke back. I imagined that I lived in the pages, that at any moment someone would turn the page and my next adventure would start. I imagined I was a long lost Russian czarina missing since she was a tiny baby, her parents desperately trying to find her. I was a twin, separated from my sister and one day we ran into each other at the store. I was the homecoming queen, a cheerleader, an opera singer, a ballerina, a world famous pianist, a softball star, a time traveler. I was every character I ever read about, and all the ones I could only imagine. I started inventing my own stories; I started my own great American novel at least 20 times. I would act out the stories in my room. Every trip to the store or doctor's office was a chance to add another chapter in my head. And the books didn't have to be masterpieces. Any book that told a story, that allowed me to be caught up in the telling of it, that was a book good enough for me.

My mother would take me and my brothers to the library on Saturday. She would drop us at the front door and arrange to meet us in an hour. She and I and my brothers would spread out in 4 different directions like arms of a compass. I would head straight for the fiction. I would pick out however many books you were allowed to check out at once and then get one more. I would see how long each book was and then start to read the shortest one. It was a sad, sad day when I couldn't finish and had to decide which book to leave. Parting with one book was torture. Finishing one was worse. It meant I was done with my life, my friends, that story.
Even now, I just close my eyes and I can feel and smell and hear the books, the smooth pages, the older pages, the musty smell, the sound of a new spine cracking open, the sound of the pages turning, the crinkle of cellophane, the give of paperback, or the stiffness of hard cover. I can also vividly recall the day I came home only to remember I had left a book outside on the patio and our puppies had not realized its worth. That was a tough day.
I never have trouble in a library or bookstore. Or at least, the only trouble I have is how to not take all the books with me.

And so in the process, I have developed my own language, the language of books. There are words I don't remember learning but I know them. I've never looked them up in a dictionary but I can see them and know what they mean and use them properly. But imagine my surprise and embarrassment when quite often I cannot pronounce them.
But I have been given the gift of words. I love words, they are beautiful. They tell us when to laugh, to cry, to get angry, to forgive, to love, to let go, to feel. I feel blessed that I can use them as I can. But I can also recognize mastery in others. I cannot tell a story. I meander around, take the road less traveled, and rarely get back on point. I start out telling one story and end with another sometimes forgetting that I started it aloud or in a place where others could see, and not just in my head. I can follow all the twists and turns, and so I love my meanderings. But it doesn't always lead to others being able to find their way. It can be confusing and distracting. But it's me, and it's beautiful and powerful, and necessary for me.
And I love it.

And so I find it comforting, even with my head pounding a bit, to sit here in this quiet house and let the words flow. It's something I've been missing. An old friend who I forgot all about.
Had I not gotten this migraine, I would have sat at the computer tonight, watching some show or movie, I would have been knitting, and sometimes reading what someone else wrote on facebook or another blog. But that's not what happened tonight. Tonight I got another migraine, and for once I am glad.


Anonymous said...

I'm glad you're writing. I haven't had a chance yet to read a lot of it, but I really appreciate how reading someone else's thoughts can bring comfort and encouragement. Sometimes just knowing that you aren't the only person in the world who feels a certain way can be a blessing, whatever the author's style or method of writing. Keep up the good work :)

Anonymous said...

So I can't figure out this username/nickname/profile name nonsense. I was trying to post that as my name but it didn't work. Well, you know who I am ;)

Lisa said...

Yeah, I figured out who you were. ;)

I agree about getting comfort and encouragement from someone else's thought. I've been reading blogs for awhile now just for that reason. It's different reading someone you know. But still good. I hope you keep writing. I like your voice.