You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October, 2007.
My sister and I had a conversation last weekend that has haunted me all week. For one thing, just that fact that we had a conversation was a shocker. We haven’t talked like this since February. Our interactions have been strained “how’s the weather” discussions at two family weddings and a bridal shower. I suppose that’s a story for another day, but suffice it to say that I’ve missed talking to her because as much as I hate to admit it sometimes, she knows pieces of me that no one else will ever understand. It must have something to do with our shared DNA.
She said something about how much it bothers her that people cannot be happy for another person’s good fortune. I listened to her for a while, and we eventually hung up, but I haven’t been able to shake her words since then. All week, I’ve thought about times when I sat back and sulked when everyone around me seemed to be riding along on the great train of life. Yeah, it’s hard to jump up and applaud when you’re the one left behind. Dr. Seuss was right: unslumping yourself is not easily done. At the same time, how fair is it to expect those around us to feel the same thrills we do for new milestones?
A few days later my brother called to tell me that he and his wife are expecting a baby next summer. I’m happy for them and cannot wait to have another nephew or neice. At the same time, if I had not been in the parking lot at work, I would have crawled under the covers and wasted away my day hiding from the sun. My sister’s words echoed in my head, and I really searched my soul that morning. My happiness for them is genuine, but it’s not as great as it would be if I wasn’t in my current situation of hoping for a baby of my own. That is all I have to offer. For better or worse, that has to be enough.
I was standing outside in the rain the other day thinking about why I keep a journal. Since I was thirteen, I’ve written rather irregularly in spiral notebooks, hardcover books, the inside of envelopes, and on various scraps of paper. My journals range from essays to poetry, and even some one liners. I thought it might be convenient to scan them all and store them on a USB drive. Well, this isn’t entirely true. I actually was thinking of how much more I would write if I could do so without the fear of someone reading my innermost thoughts and using it as evidence to have me committed to a “facility” for the rest of my life.
All this led me to some of the more interesting moments in my life. In my 30 years, I’ve managed to collect a wealth of stories that range from the absurd to the tragic and the brilliant to the insane. I’ve shared several stories with dear friends and a few strangers., but many of these stories are doomed to collect dust in my head. Unless, of course, I go ahead and start writing some novels as my therapist once suggested. (He is one of the rare souls who knows these stories and thinks they are perfect fodder for some fiction.) In the end, I couldn’t help but think of how much of life gets taken to the grave.
Having rambled on through my disclaimer, I’m now too tired to continue. So here is a poem I started writing about my stories.
My Stories
They are sensual and seedy.
Some are tragic.
Some are greedy.
They are a part of me.
They are thriving and thrilling.
Some are magic.
Some are silly.
They are a part of me.
