Find the Things You Love

I love writing! Which is probably the only reason I decided to take a chance on becoming a blogger. Does it make me a selfish person that I’m just doing this for me? It’s not because I think I’m really good at it or that I have anything important or of value to say, and it’s even quite possible that no one will see my site or read my blog posts anyway, but there is something about putting pen to paper (or better yet, pencil to paper—it’s easier to erase all of my mistakes that way) that is really satisfying. It’s fun to look back on things I’ve written during the process of working it all out on paper to see where I started and where I ended up. There are so many ways to say the same thing that when I read through final drafts, I still see changes I’d like to make to state things more clearly, or to be more concise, or more colorful and creative. It seems to always be a work in progress and it’s hard to feel that anything is ever ready enough for me to share.

I wrote a novel once. It was a lot of fun to write, partly because it just kind of wrote itself. It directed me to where it wanted to go, I just had to try to keep up with my thoughts. It was almost easy to write because I wove in real life experiences from my life as well as experiences of family and friends. The bad part was that once I got it done, I wasn’t satisfied with it, so I immediately started a revision. And it is in that state that it has stayed. It was a long time ago and I planned to get back to it to fix, improve, and finish it someday. Now I don’t even know where it is. I know that I originally put it in a safe place where I was sure I would be able to find it sometime in the future. That didn’t work so well. I think we all have similar places where we put things for safekeeping and then that place ends up being so safe that we can’t find the items we’re in search of when we need them. I’m pretty sure that my lost manuscript will eventually resurface, as most things do, and maybe that will be the day I’ll be ready to dust it off and give it new life.

I think the first writing I ever did, other than assignments for school, was in my 5-Year Diary. It was a gift given to me when I was in late elementary to junior high school age. It had a cute red and white design on the cover and a locking clasp to keep any snoopy person, namely younger siblings, from reading it. Not that I had anything intriguing or interesting written in it that would warrant the need for secrecy. I found it a while back, (it wasn’t in the same safe place as my novel unfortunately) and began to read it. I was inconsistent in writing, which makes perfect sense as most of the days I did write, the brief entry went something like this: “Went to school today. Didn’t do much after that”. What can you expect from a tween?

By the time high school rolled around I had moved from the diary to a larger journal with full sized pages, and my writing increased in frequency, length, and feeling. Those were more exciting years, filled with activity, interactions, and drama, and I wanted to capture it all. My journal became one of my best friends—one that I could pour my heart out to without the fear of judgement or criticism. I had a few groups of friends that I would rotate through, so while I was spending time with one group, the others were put on the shelf, so to speak, much like my friend, the journal, to be pulled out and confided in when I needed it most. I really should give her a name.

Throughout the years that I was raising my family there never seemed to be enough time to write consistently, even though those were years filled with happenings I would like to have had recorded. Occasionally I would make it a priority to record major milestones for future reflection and verification of facts, such as the information surrounding the birth of each of our children. There have been times when I have looked through my journals hoping to find proof that something that I remember having happened actually did transpire, only to be disappointed in discovering that I hadn’t written about it at all.

Once I started working on my novel, and because of my disappointment in not having all my memories recorded, I started adding as much detail as possible when I would write. I wanted to not only paint an accurate picture of what took place during my experiences, but I wanted to capture the way I felt about the things I was going through. I felt that this would not only help me to navigate and process through emotional things better, but it would also give me a greater ability to be authentic in my writing.

The past several years my journal has become by therapist. It obviously can’t give me the advice I may need, but I realized with my last wonderful and amazing therapist, that I wasn’t ready for the advice she was giving me anyway—that the real reason I was going to see her was just to vent. I just needed someone to talk to, someone who would listen to me and validate my feelings, not necessarily to make me see that I needed to make some changes, even though it was (and still is) true. That was uncomfortable, and I wasn’t ready for it. I believe that I usually know what the answers are for me anyway, if I’m just willing to listen to my inner self and pray for the help I need to act on the promptings I receive. I think we as humans are often resistant to change because it is uncomfortable and uncertain.

I enjoy writing poetry as well. At least that’s what I call it. I don’t have a degree in Literature so I might not know what qualifies as a poem or what makes it so. I don’t recall much of what I learned in school. But I do remember an English teacher I had in high school who told me once that I should become a writer. So, despite the fact that I probably didn’t get a good grade in her class, I’m now trying to develop and hone my still evolving skill as a writer, not by more book learning, but simply by writing. I think my hang up with school learning was not necessarily the subject matter, but it was the deadlines. They didn’t always fit in my social schedule, my mood, my energy level, or as with my writing, my ability to get the creative thoughts to come on demand.

Here is where fulfilling the requirements to get good grades to graduate from high school, and my therapeutic journal writing collide. One day, my sweet English teacher called our house to talk to my parents about my grade in her class. That’s never a good thing in my book. As far as I know, teachers don’t usually call to tell their students parents that their child is incredible and acing their class, at least I had never experienced that before. I knew my grade wasn’t great but I had plans to turn some things in to improve it and I hoped I’d get that taken care of before anything like this would need to happen. No such luck, and is what’s worse, my dad answered the phone and I was a little bit afraid of my dad.

Once when my brother had been called out on something, my dad had stuck a wispy branch that looked like a whip in the flower box that was just inside our back door so that my brother wouldn’t miss seeing it as he walked into the house. It was there as an unspoken warning that it would be used on him if he didn’t shape up. So I was pretty nervous when my dad confronted me about my grade. I can be a little headstrong, stubborn and even outspoken, so I didn’t really cower to him like maybe I should have. I stood my ground and explained that it was my life and I could do what I wanted with it. I assured him that I fully intended to pass this class and graduate from high school but that it was going to be my decision and not because he was threatening me. Surprisingly by the end of the conversation things were okay–until he mentioned that he had read something I had written about him in my journal. I was shocked! I had no idea he was reading my journal. How could he do that? Didn’t he know that journals are private, just like you don’t just go around snooping into a woman’s purse? Hadn’t he been taught the rules of curtesy and respect?  I felt so betrayed, hurt, and angry. We had never had a close relationship and this certainly didn’t help it become any closer. Looking back, and from the perspective of being a flawed parent myself, I can now see that he was just concerned about me. I can forgive his mistakes in being an imperfect dad because I would hope to be forgiven for my mistakes in being an imperfect mom to my kids.

One more thing before I get to my real purpose of writing this post. It has to do with my poems. I find that if left without boundaries, like the rhythm and rhyme of a poem, I have a tendency to ramble on and may totally skirt around my point, thinking I had made it when maybe it got lost or forgotten in the diversions. This post being case in point. I know that I can drone on and on when speaking or writing, so using poetry as a means of writing while staying within boundaries can be a fun challenge to say what I want to say without saying too much.

On to my point. Hobbies! For me, as has been mentioned in this and other posts, my hobbies include singing, playing the piano and writing. They help me relax and take a break from the world and the inherent stress that comes from living in it, while still applying myself and strengthening or developing skills and talents. I was told once that I “have many talents untapped” and was encouraged to discover what they might be to “enjoy the feeling of accomplishment”.

Not only are hobbies a source of personal enjoyment but many can include other people as well, allowing for friendships to be made and relationships to be strengthened. My husband recently suggested that we take a dance class together, which concerned me a little with our common lack of coordination and his balance issues, but I need not throw out the idea all together. We may need to take baby steps and work up to anything that may look like dancing, but it’s not an impossible notion. A few days later he added to his list of things we could do together by sharing his desire to play pickleball. Our first date was playing racquetball together and he was really good at it. It was a lot of fun even though I’m not the most athletic person alive, but neither of us has done anything like that in years. I had already made a goal for myself to play pickleball at least once this year as it is all the rage in our neighborhood and I have never tried to play it. As we talked a little about the idea, my husband and I decided that we need to start with just going for walks together and see how that goes first.

In the meantime, he and I are working on this blog together. He is the creator of this website and fixes everything I mess up because of my lack of technological knowledge and experience. He is my cheerleader! This is maybe more our speed at this stage in our lives. But the possibilities for joy through hobbies is endless. So get creative, take a chance on something you’ve always wanted to do, or even something that might get you out of your comfort zone. Here’s hoping that we can all enjoy the life we have been given and experience that feeling of accomplishment.

Check out Hobby Ideas Here