But I must clean and I must do laundry and I must pack for camp. And I must eat all the veggies so they don't go bad while I'm away.
Sunblock. Sunglasses. Things I will forget.
I have never been so inspired about writing before. I love to write. I wrote stories when I was a child. I wonder if I can find the first story I wrote. About Toodles and baby Cindle. I don't know if it really was the first story I ever wrote, but it's the first I remember. I was too young to write so I dictated it to my mother, and I added drawings. I can still picture them now. I wonder if my parents kept it. I should seek it out. I remember it being an excellent story.
I also co-authored a poem with my sister when we were young. About little Rosie Duchess. I wonder where that went. At one point I had it memorized. Maybe I could piece it back together?
It was a dark and stormy night in the middle of July
When little Rosie Duchess began to cry.
She was crying 'bout her brother who had just been born.
Another little Duchess, made her quite forlorn.
She put on a pink dress, and pink sandals too.
She was dressed all in pink, but she felt rather blue.
And I can't remember anymore. I wonder if I ever typed it up, or if it's still in a box of papers from my childhood.
I also wrote a few poems on my own. I remember tucking the sheets in their red folder under my mattress so that no one would find them. I imagine they're gone too. I never liked sharing my stories or poems with others. I have always been afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid of what's in my mind? What others will think of it? I don't like opening myself up to criticism. So rather than sharing and getting feedback good and bad, I held it all in my entire life.
It's like a story I once watched unfold. My nephew would be out with his mother, and the cashier would offer him a balloon. He was a polite little boy, and he would decline with tact, even for one so young. I asked him if he didn't like balloons, and he said that he liked them, but he didn't want them to float away. So even with my assurances that I could get it safely to the car and safely to the house afterwards, he didn't want it. He was too afraid of losing it.
I think this applies to so much of my life. I'm too afraid of what I will lose that sometimes it's not even worth trying. People are afraid of each other. It hurts to open up to another human. So the risk of losing a friendship or relationship holds us back from even beginning. Or with my writing, the fear of criticism and rejection stifles me, and while nothing stops me from writing, it has stopped me from sharing.
I have been afraid for too long. This year I made it my New Years resolution to share music at least once month. I think I have succeeded in sharing at least twice a month. And this summer I have been sharing my writing with others too. It's still scary. But it's getting easier. Because people are kind.
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