So, this is my maiden voyage into the blogosphere. For years, I have contemplated blogging, but, since I have been so busy raising my little people, I felt that I could not justify committing the time to such a pursuit. I mean writing, especially about myself and my ideas, seemed too self-indulgent, too narcissistic. Now, I in no way believe that this is a healthy way think. Do we need to justify everything we do? Of course not. Are we not entitled to engage in pursuits that give us pleasure and fulfillment? Of course we are. It’s just that at the time, I was not so enlightened, at least when it came to viewing myself. Then two things happened. I had an epiphany during a conversation with my husband, and, at about the same time, I picked up a book I had owned for years and never looked at and finally decided to read the first chapter.
The aforementioned conversation with my husband was not unlike the conversations he and I have almost every day. Don’t expect it to be anything mind-blowing . I can’t even recall exactly what we were talking about. All I remember is that he and I were sharing what we both believed were some pretty good ideas when I thought to myself, “Too bad we probably won’t remember any of this in a few days. These great ideas will disappear as if they were never thought, never uttered.” I know. This is not a terribly deep or intellectual thought, and yet, for me, it was very profound. It came to me. This is why I want to write. I want to preserve my ideas. Whether they be smart or silly or simply a reflection of where I am at a certain period in my life, I want to make them real, to give them some weight, some validity, to write them down. In fifty years, if my mind starts to go, I want some proof of my intellectual and emotional existence. I don’t want to be left with a withered body and the memories that others have of the me that once was.
Shortly after I had my mini epiphany about why I should write, a teacher friend of mine came to the house for a visit. We were sitting in my living room when she spotted The Art of Teaching Writing by Lucy McCormick Calkins stacked up in one of my many book piles. She asked if she could take a look at it, flipped through the pages and left it on my coffee table. Now I have owned this book for years. I purchased it over a decade ago when I was in graduate school, and for some reason, never found the time to read it. That evening I read the first chapter and was struck. In it Calkins states
…as human beings, we write to communicate, plan, petition, remember, announce, list, imagine…but above all, we write to hold our lives in our hands and make something of them. There is no plot line in the bewildering complexity of our lives but that which we make for ourselves. Writing allows us to turn the chaos into something beautiful, to frame selected moments, to uncover and celebrate the organizing patterns of our existence.* (8)
That, my friends, said it all. Through her writing, Calkins articulated my thoughts, and thus gave them substance and validity.
Reading those few lines written by Calkins inspired me to proceed. To write. To write to be heard in a world where so few truly listen. I write to make my existence, my experience my thoughts real. I write to freeze time and preserve the beautiful moments I share with my children. I write to make meaning out of what sometimes appears meaningless and see the beauty in things that otherwise may go unnoticed or unappreciated. I write because my time on this earth, all our time, is finite and I want to notice and enjoy and preserve all that I can while I am here.
*Calkins, Lucy McCormick. The Art of Teaching Writing. Portsmouth: Heinemann, 1994. Print.