Becca Rowan is a writer and the author of Life in General, a collection of essays about mid-life as experienced by an American woman in the 21st century. Becca loves creating connections by sharing stories on her popular blog.
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suckling honeybee hangs on for dear life
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indulging life's sweetest passion, creating nectarThe other morning, as I was sitting with notebook blithely writing away at my morning pages, I had a funny little frisson of thought~you know, those strange notions that seem to pop into your head occasionlly, like a waking dream. For just a second, I had the feeling that everyone in my neighborhood, everyone in the world, actually, was writing too. With a quick mental shake of the head, I came to my senses. How ridiculous is that? But then, a wave of sadness came over me, sadness for everyone I know that doesn't write, because they are missing so much. Using words to express our needs, our thoughts, our emotions, is basic to life, and something every child is taught from the earliest of ages. Unlike playing a musical instrument, or painting, or dancing, learning command of our languge through speech and the written word is deemed one of life's most necessary skills. Isn't it exciting to watch children master the use of words, to figure out that the use of words makes things happen? Who hasn't cherished a child's scribbled notes and poems, written with such excitement and freedom, their first forays into the world of written expression?
Back in 1938, when she wrote If You Want To Write, author Brenda Ueland insisted that "everybody is talented, everybody who is human has something to express." We let that creative engergy, that drive to express oursleves get "drummed out of our lives by dry obligation, and because we don't respect it in ourselves and keep it alive by using it." Fast forward 60 years, and Julia Cameron publishes Right to Write, in which she advises us to "write because it's human nature to write. Writing claims our world. It brings clarity and passion to the art of living. It is good for the soul. It connects us to our insights, and to a higher and deeper level of inner guidance." I don't believe writing is just for the "chosen few," but that everyone comes hard wired with this need to express themselves with the written word. The proliferation of blogging as a means of personal expression is testimony to that.
In the high school where I work, we have a period of time each day known as "Silent Reading." It happens about 10:30 a.m., right after morning announcements. Just after we've heard results of the volleyball game, meeting time for National Honor Society, and been reminded to wear red and black for spirit day, the announcer says, "Now it's time for Silent Reading." The entire student body -all 2100 of them- including teachers, stops class and reads for 20 minutes.
I love being there when that happens. I love the idea of everybody stopping in their tracks just to read, to enter into someone else's world for a while. Wouldn't it be fabulous if the whole world took time every day to do that? And, wouldn't it be even more fabulous if the the world took 20 minutes every day to write, to enter into our own worlds a little deeper, express our vision of life and ourselves on the page. Wouldn't we all become more mindful of the beauty that surrounds us, the people that intersect with our lives, and more keely attuned to our own thoughts and dreams? Those are just some of the ways my writing experience has enriched my life.
So, how about you? Do you make time to write everyday? Don't you think everybody should?
I've just emerged from a heartbreaking world created by author Jodi Picoult in her latest book, Nineteen Minutes. I can't remember when I've last been so deeply affected by a novel, but I think it was another of Picoult's books, The Pact. Both novels deal with teenagers in crisis, which, as a mother and high school teacher, is a subject near to my heart. But Nineteen Minutes ~ the story of a boy bullied physically and emotionally by his peers his entire life, a boy who finally takes control in a horrifying shooting spree at his high school~strikes extremely close to home for me, because the more I read about Peter Houghton, the young man at the heart of this compelling story, the more I was reminded of my own son. It's really hard for boys who don't fit the mold, boys who would rather write stories or draw cartoons than play football or soccer, boys who don't think stuffing people into lockers is funny, boys who prefer hanging out at home watching Star Trek reruns to going to gambling and drinking at the casino. My son Brian, like Peter Houghton, was one of those boys who were "different." And like Peter, he became a victim of kids who used emotional and physical abuse as a way to preserve their own misguided sense of superiority.
"Most of Peter's childhood memories involved situations where was victimized by either other children or by adults whom he'd perceived as being able to help him, yet didn't," testified Peter's psychiatrist. "He described everything from physical threats - Get out of my way or I'm going to punch your lights out; to physical actions-doing nothing more than walking down the hallway and being slammed up against the wall because he happened to get too close to someone walking past him; to emotional taunts - like being called homo or queer." For Peter (and for Brian, too) the computer became a "safe haven." It was "the vehicle he used to create a world that was comfortable for him, peopled by characters who appreciated him and whom he had control over, as he didn't in real life," explained Peter's psychiatrist.
Brian was luckier than Peter in that he was physically forbidding - always tall and stocky, he was perfect quarterback material from a physical standpoint~which made him less vulnerable to physical abuse. But the emotional alienation was very real for him, especially during his high school years, and I watched him become increasingly withdrawn and angry. But, like Peter's mother Lacy, I really had no idea how to help, or really, how dangerous this situation was. And the teacher's at Brian's school (just like at Peter's) were of no help at all, and even insinuated that the kids doing the bullying were just "being normal kids," and Brian needed to "stop being so sensitive."
I'm ashamed to say that I bought into that philosophy for a while, and tried to "toughen him up," as Lacy Houghton admitted to doing with her own son. It took an act of violence to really make me understand just how traumatized my son was ~ a moment when he lashed out in anger and fear, his hand forced through a window, slashing his wrist and severing nerves and tendons in two of his fingers. From that moment, I realized that this was a matter of life and death, and treated it accordingly. We started fighting back as a family, found a wonderful therapist, and Brian began to gain confidence in himself and learn ways to cope.
I can tell Brian's story now because (unlike Peter Houghton's story) it has a happy ending. He's happily married, has a successful career, and functions very well in the world. But he keeps a wariness within him, a fear of people and situations where he might become vulnerable and prone to "attack." That's the legacy left from those years of exposure to mistreatment and ignorance.
If your child were being victimized by an adult, wouldn't you immediately move heaven and earth to stop it, to protect them? Why treat abuse from other children any differently? Why allow children to indulge in behaviors that hurt someone else, and pass it off as childish pranks? If you do (as Jodi Picoult so eloquently yet painfully portrays in her book, and as I have seen firsthand in my own experience) the effects can be more devastating than you could ever imagine.
After a very long Sunday filled with more hours on the piano bench than I would have chosen, (especially with the sun was shining brightly and the red line of thermometer approaching the number 70!), I finally sat down with a glass of wine and started catching up on my blog roll. I was very pleasantly surprised to find that Vicki (Bibi's Beat) had "tagged" me with this lovely honor:
There's a nifty meme attached to this, and since I was lucky enough to be chosen as a "thinking blogger," I decided to play along. I figured it would be easy, since I have a lengthy roster of blog friends that make me think about everything from photography to food, antiques to art, politics to parenthood. Let me tell you, the hard part was narrowing it down to just five! This list represents just a few of the many people who stimulate my cerebellum every day. If the five of you want to play along, the "rules" are listed at the bottom of the page.
To play along, think of five bloggers that provide you with some flavorful, spicy, comforting, food for thought, and then follow these rules:
We were all standing in the kitchen, my mom, my dad, and I, on a beautiful spring day much like it was here today. It must have been a Saturday, because we'd just come home from the allergist (Saturday's were my allergy shot day). My mother was bustling around in the cupboards, starting lunch-probably tuna fish sandwiches and tomato soup, which were my favorites. My dad was leaning in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, drinking a glass of milk. "Why don't we go on trip?" he asked. "We could pack up and head south right now, and be in Kentucky by dark."
Excitement began rising up in me, like bubbles in a glass of soda, my mind already revving up with the idea of adventure, of hitting the open road, of seeing all my southern cousins and my aunts and uncles, of sitting on Aunt Emily's front porch in the swing late at night, listening to the tree frogs singing, of walking up the big hill behind their farm to the little cemetery on the hill where my great-great grandparents were buried, of wandering around the one room schoolhouse and hearing my mother tell the tales of riding Billy, her little pony, to school, seeing the spot where she tied him up each day while she sat inside doing her lessons.
My mother froze for a moment, then banged the Farberware saucepan noisily down on the stove, flipping the knob underneath so the gas fired under it with an angry hiss. "What are you talking about?" she said. "Why, we can't go on any trip now! How am I supposed to get everything ready to go on a trip in five minutes?"
I sat silently, hardly daring to move, knowing how much my mother disliked traveling, even to her old hometown. I could feel my father's disappointment, as he gazed out the window at the blue sky and sunshine, his desire to break free and do something spontaneous a palpable presence in the room.
"Oh please, Mama!" I cried out, jumping up from my chair at the kitchen table. "PLEAAASE! It would be so much fun!"
My dad draped an arm across my mother's shoulders and smiled, a warm and winning smile that, combined with my pleading, she was powerless to resist. "Pleaase, Mama," he said gently into her ear.
"Oh, alright," she agreed. "But nobody's going anywhere until after lunch. Just sit down here and eat your soup and sandwich, and then we'll see."
I barely tasted my food, and then ran to my room and started tossing things into my powder blue cardboard suitcase~my transistor radio, all the books I was reading at the time, my drawing pad and pencils, and of course, Tedrick, the battered brown bear I'd been sleeping with every night since the age of three.
We did go on that trip, setting off within the hour in my dad's dark red Coupe de Ville. It was the finest trip we ever took. Just the other day, my dad was talking about it- as a matter of fact, he brings it up nearly every time I see him.
"Remember that time we just decided to get in the car and drive south?" he'll say, and even 40 years later I can sense the excitement building in both of us - the idea, the possibility, of doing something so different and daring, something unplanned, unprepared for. "Remember, we were just standing in the kitchen one day talking about it..."
"I sure do remember," I answer, smiling.
"That was the best trip we ever took, wasn't it?" he said wistfully.
"It sure was," I agreed.
And it all started in the kitchen.
See what's happening in other people's kitchens right here.
