I remember hiding torch under my bed covers so I can read, (or write), until dawn. Inventing sudden and mysterious illness to be sent home from school, only to hide in the library to read was not beyond me. Nor was it continuously pestering my grandfather to tell me yet another story, preferably without pausing for breath between them. One of these days I will tell you about the stories he used to tell me while winter was painting white flowers on our windows in suburban Zagreb.
One of my teachers in middle school professed that my impatience will cost me dearly in life. I did not like her. But I remembered her today while re-reading writings I posted on my blog … that is only a month old today but has already undergone three transformations, including platform, theme, title and tag line. It was at that moment I noticed a childish face with a cheeky smile lurking from the corner of my laptop screen. Winking at me knowingly. Doing the cartwheels over my posts. I could not decide between crying or laughing … tiers will follow in either case that much I knew.
I long for that young girl, with twinkle in her eye and wonders in her big, tender heart. I am grateful that she is still in me, after all those years. That she still cannot wait to see what is inside the wrappings. But the other one, the one that has been mold by years and worries into, what is usually called ‘a mature woman’, was starting to be very annoyed. Apparently nothing was really to her liking; too much posting too soon, trying to run before to walk with confidence, etc. I never liked grumpy people.
But I am not all that fond of cartwheels over my posts all the time either … mostly because the woman writing blog posts here has not done any cartwheels for years.
And because this blog means too much to me not to try and learn how to do my best here. In a very short space of time it has succeeded in teaching me lessons on patience, perseverance, and humbleness. On power of reflections on self … without publicizing it. On writing more to publish less. It is showing me that one must first go into self before to reach to others… even while everything in this world is made public the moment it happens. Our is the world of ‘look at me’ on gazillions of social sites culture. Corporate giants harvesting profits from those sites succeeded in making us all believe that we are only alive if our profiles attract large fellowships, (also from their sites). They did this by simply tapping into one of the humankind’s most basic but also most powerful desire – desire to be noted. Because to be noted is to be distinguished from everyone else, from the masses of humanity … and so ultimately it is to be recognized, and to be recognized is to be loved … or hated. Either way, loved or loathed, we humans prefer it any day over anonymity. And so ‘look at me’ culture goes on … and on.
As for the Courage to Write (CtW, or LP) … this is it. All I must remember while writing myself to freedom is to let the young girl in to do the cartwheels every now and then … after all it really is her doing all the hard work … I am just typing.