So I'm starting a blog today. Hooray! And I’m already looking back on the day I decided to do this
like it’s a bittersweet memory. One day I’ll be thinking “Remember how I decided I had to start a blog so I could
hopefully go back to work?” I'll remember the me I was—the woman with the
long ponytail sitting in her pjs, typing away at 5am with a cup of hot coffee
just to the right of her elbow. According to my online research (Starting a
Blog 101), I need to establish a theme for my blog, and since I'm a writer, it
should probably mostly be about writing, somehow.
So, I'm starting with what makes me write.
I am nostalgic about everything. It’s built into me, and I’m not
sure how to avoid it or overcome it or ignore it. I can’t even think about last
week without getting that twinge of sweet sorrow that accompanies most
memories. Maybe it’s the world we live in. Things are moving so quickly and
there’s always something new to do, to read, to share, to post. There isn’t
really time for the current thing you're looking at to be absorbed because there’s already
something else in your inbox. We don’t have much time to reflect, and for
someone like me, someone who's always looking back, that’s probably a good thing. Given the opportunity, I could really get to pining for
days gone by—the kids were so cute, the mountain air was so clean, my dad was
still alive, the summers were long and loose—so being forced to stay in the
here and now might be working in my favor. I'm being forced to look today in the face and embrace the present, because frankly? There just isn't much time for looking back.
But, wait! In the present, today, I'm kind of getting old. Oldish? This isn't a concept I'm in love with. At my age, I think I'm supposed to cut my long hair,
dress in sensible, high-waisted pants, and stow away the bikinis. But I still
feel like my same self. The previous "cool" me that was clubbing in
my twenties is still in here. The "overflowing-with-love" me that was
getting married and having kids in my thirties is still in here. The
"teenage" me that loved walking through the hallways in high school
is still in here—as evidenced by the fact that when I dropped off my oldest son
for his first day of high school yesterday, I wanted to stay and follow him
around and go to all of his classes. I almost just snatched his schedule and
made off with it, my mind racing about the ways I could disguise myself to look
more like the other teens. High ponytail? Excruciatingly short shorts? Tank top
cut so low that the bra is really the "shirt"? I'm realistic. I know
that the teenage me is a goner. But honestly, the "child" me who rode
her bike with no helmet and no hands and let the wind push her hair off her
face like a wild fairy is still in here. She peeks out occasionally, like when
I decide I should try skim-boarding with my youngest, or play catch with my
middle son, who throws a baseball about 85 mph.
Facing my age is fine. But I don't feel old. I am simply
nostalgic for all the "me's" I used to be, and still am. And all of
those "me's" make me want to write elegant, poetic fiction with sharp
dialogue and lovely descriptions. The "now" me—the one in her forties
who is wondering where all the time went and how she will ever finish her novel
when there's carpool to be driven, dinner to be cooked, copy to be proofed,
friends to comfort—she's the one I have to wrestle down into the chair. She's
the one who needs to stay focused and unfettered and fresh. The "now"
me needs to feel young and alive and full of potential. But sometimes, I just
feel overwhelmed. And that's when I start to feel old.
Everyone goes through this struggle if we’re lucky enough to
make it to our forties or fifties, right? It's furiously cliché. And
inevitable. We become middle-aged. And we do our best. We take care of
ourselves. We work out. We do whatever we need to do to feel good (aka Botox,
Bar Method, drinking too much wine). And then one day, we look in the mirror
and we don’t totally recognize who that person is looking back. I
accidentally hit FaceTime when I was trying to call a friend, and I was
startled by the scary, big-nosed, angry man who suddenly appeared in my phone
screen. Oh wait. That was me. (*This last sentence is grammatically
incorrect, but it sounds better, so I’m keeping it. I just can’t let it go
unmarked that I know it’s wrong!) Anyway, the point is…please don’t ever
FaceTime me. It’s terrifying. And I get it...that makes me sound old. Or
archaic.
But we can't rest. Life is always developing out in front of us,
like that route you once took when you were driving somewhere and got lost (way
back before there were nifty things like Google Maps and GPS) and you had to
literally just roll until you came out somewhere that might reorient you. You
just had to hit the gas and drive on. So when I start feeling old, I’m going to
remember to stay in the fast lane, at full acceleration. I'll try to stop
looking back so much, and just keep my eyes on the road that's unfolding ahead.
It’s not easy. But I’m going to try.
And when I sit down to write, usually in the early morning when
everyone is home but no one else is awake, I can flood the page with all my
complicated thoughts and wistful themes about history and family and tradition
and legacy. I can let the nostalgia flow, and then plow ahead making the
"next" me. If I keep my foot on the gas, she's destined to be someone
I'd like to know (but not FaceTime with. Ever.).
Love this...and the last sentence "...she's destined to be someone I'd like to know..." SERIOUSLY! You are there now!
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