You know that part in “Forrest Gump” when reporters are trying to interview him, find out his “cause,” and he’s been jogging across the country for a few years…people following him like he had the answers to the world but in the end, the only reason he gave for the journey was that he felt like it. And you’re like, “that is so simple and beautiful.”
Sometimes I feel that way about writing. I have all these ideas and starts and stops to drafts on this blog that I want to birth into full-blown posts that change lives, but it sounds like too much work to really type it all out, add pictures, edit, reformat, check to make sure I’m being mostly appropriate and haven’t used any swear words, that I wouldn’t mind my parents or my boss reading, that it matters.
Sometimes I don’t feel like doing all that and I just feel like writing. Click click clack my uncharacteristically long fingernails on the crisp macbook keyboard.
Just to write. Write to write. Not for you, not for my tiny legion of following friends, not for the stranger who Googled for more information about my celebrity crushes Brian Wilson and Joe Lando and dropped upon this mess, not for the random person from high school who inexplicably stumbled upon this blog via Facebook stalking me.
Not because I have anything important to say. Just because I feel like writing. Like drinking a cheap glass of red wine, wearing a blanket and a furrowed brow, listening to John Denver and Van Morrison and writing.
Here’s what I’m thinking:
I wear only brown boots in the winter. There is a tiny blister forming on one baby toe. My nail polish from New Year’s Eve, which I claimed was “black like my soul, but full of glitter, like swan poop in the Swiss Alps,” (true story: I have been to the Swiss Alps and the swans pooped glitter!) is chipping away terribly.
I want to play guitar and sing Adele songs at the top of my lungs and come up with some really cool acoustic mixes to a crazy Rihanna song and become a Youtube sensation.
It is hard to be back teaching when vacation was so lovely. But I got a few “Miss WEIGHT! You’re BACK!” screams and then running full-speed down the hallways into my arms, breathless tales of “on break I got a phone and my mom says I might be able to get a Facebook and I got a haircut and Megan got braces and I think the boys are taller and are you going to the next social when it’s bowling? I missed you Miss Weight I think I had a dream and I think you were in it and oh my gosh did you get the Justin Bieber Christmas cd because its like totally amazing.” <—-this is all said in one breath. <—– this is what its like teaching junior high. <—— these moments make it worth it.
My vacation was exactly what I needed. To go to Mexico and serve, to see all members of my family on Christmas Eve/Day, to have a slumber party with just my little brothers, to drive a million hours to Oregon with my best friend and remember how to be an adult and think about all the options that life has for me.
And so. Nothing to say but lots to say. My excuse is that I’m young. Single. Unprofessional.
And probably always will be.