It’s a strange habit, writing daily, or at least semi-regularly. (Of course, it has been a few days since I have written, so that puts me on the verge of writing sporadically…) It doesn’t seem to matter whether the writing takes the form of a poem, a journal entry, a blog, or a more deliberate installment in a series of memoirs, just the practice of putting words on a page change the brain for the rest of the day. It seems for me that writing forces me to respond to my life instead of merely letting it wash over me. I wonder sometimes what makes people want to read my writing. Is it a form of voyeurism? Curiosity? The need to connect to another human without making a commitment? I follow a handful of blogs and the reason I do so is that I am always looking to be surprised. I am seeking that little mental growth spurt that happens when I read something I was not expecting to read.
Some days my brain is so hungry! Just now I was reading a book by David Sedaris. Naked. (Not me. That’s the title of the book.) And I was listening to Chet Baker and had the TV on beside me, too. Sometimes it seems that only when I am on the brink of overload am I contented. I know this must impact my students at times. I am always throwing things at them in rapid-fire succession. Not literally throwing things. Ideas. And it usually takes seeing a mild reaction of panic come across a few faces to remind me to slow down, give examples, elaboration, room to react. After all it is my interaction with them that makes my day feel successful. It is as mentally satisfying as reading, writing, listening to music, watching TV, and drinking coffee all at once!
The thing that has been recurring in my mind lately is a strange and sudden realization of humanity. I am not sure how to explain what I mean here. For example, the first time I watched the movie The English Patient, a bit player came on the screen at the very beginning, and something in my brain clicked. This is a person with emotions, thoughts, fears. The actor didn’t even have a speaking role. It had nothing to do with the movie. It was just seeing the spark of electricity in his eye, a reminder that his body was a living organism. Very difficult to explain satisfactorily. And I am not sure why that particular actor impacted me so. Perhaps I was just open to it at that moment. Perhaps he was an exceptionally good actor, gifted in the subtle portrayal of what it means to be human.
I was reminded of this again when my dog died a few years ago. I was with her at the vet’s office and she was having a heart attack. She was quite old and the doctor explained that the most compassionate thing we could do for her was help her stop suffering. I will never forget that second when her life ended and her eyes became cloudy and her body suddenly seemed heavier.
I can’t really justify the emotion that wells up in me as I write this memory. Of course, I miss her. She was a spectacular friend. I miss her quirkiness and her humor. And I miss her even more for my husband. They were so in love! But even in the sadness of her being gone, I love the emotion of missing her, my ability to dwell in the melancholy moment, the somewhat selfish reassurance that my heart can be so filled with feeling that it overflows, and tears run down my cheeks.
Sometimes when I am writing, David comes in and reads over my shoulder. I warned him today not to. It’s okay if I cry, but I don’t want to make him sad. He doesn’t seem to have my abstract appreciation for sadness. It just hurts him. He is the kindest person I have ever known. And I know he will read this. In his own way he is also curious about the emotions and motivations of those around him. I know he will read this. He won’t be able not to. So I will close with this bittersweet but mostly sweet memory for him. Remember how Dave used to come into our house when he was just a toddler and head straight for Lady and without even saying a word take off his shoes and socks and rub his little bare feet on her fluffy belly and how they were both so happy and satisfied and connected?
It’s a strange habit, this storing of emotions.
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