I remember Christmas as such an exciting and joyful time as a kid... Parties and presents and pretty dresses... My mom saying yes to things she usually said no to, like cookies or playing games with me at the kitchen table or letting me help her bake. Seeing cousins and aunts and uncles we didn't normally see, and spending more time with the grandparents.
And then there was the magical, mystical quality of it all...
Waking up on Christmas morning, padding downstairs where the lights on the tree were still on to see a huge mound of presents in the place where I left my empty stocking the night before. A mound of presents left by a fat guy who came down my chimney...? All in return for some hot cocoa and a couple of cookies? Which, incidentally, was an idea that I bought into for a really, really, really long time.
And I really liked going to church only on Christmas Eve because they did the candle thing and even as a little kid, I thought that was really pretty and peaceful. Plus I knew that when we got home, there was a party at our house and we would get to open a present and then it wasn't long until Santa would come!
When I think of Christmas in childhood, I think of joy, peace, excitement, love.
What I never felt as a child during Christmas time was...stressed out.
As an adult...
I returned home from a workshop in Texas on December 3rd. I was weary from the work and the travel and so glad to be home. I walked through the gate and into the airport sighing with relief and thought to myself, Ah. Denver. I'm so glad I don't have to go anywhere until... Crap. Two weeks. Seriously? Less than two weeks. I have to leave for Michigan in less than two weeks?!!! Are you kidding me?! I haven't bought one present or baked one thing! How could this be?!
Christmas time is so... stressful.
Do I have enough time to order that for her? Can I get it in that size? Did you deliver this to that person? Did you buy them a ____? Do we have enough money to pay for the gas? Are we at your family's house for the same amount of time we are at mine? What are my brothers going to make fun of me about this year? How much poop am I going to have to clean out of the car seats? Is she going to like this? They have everything. What kind of a gift can I even buy them?...
And all of these things always seems to sneak up on me.
So, this year, after realizing I had less than two weeks until we got in a car to go visit family... I made a list. I checked it twice. And on the second check, I simply crossed out a bunch of stuff that I could skip (or do after Christmas) and attempt to keep my sanity. I didn't bake anything. Seriously. Not. One. Thing. I didn't buy my kids presents. Seriously. The Sunday before we left for Michigan I filled up their stockings with cool travel games to keep them busy in the car, but that was it. Then we went to see the Muppets as a family. Somehow we still have more toys and games than we know what to do with. I only took on one photo project that consisted of 8 pictures. And sin of all Must Do Christmas Tradition sins, I didn't send out Christmas cards or get our family pictures taken. (If you happened to notice not getting a Christmas card with a picture of our smiling family on it, now you know why.)
And still, even after eliminating all of those things from my list of things to do, the prevailing feeling was not joy, peace, excitement, or love. It was stress.
Granted, it was wonderful to see all of the family that we got to see. It was super fun to play Farkle with the families and go out for drinks with my brothers and sisters in law. It was awesome to watch my boys have so much fun with their cousins and grandparents.
But it seems as though I am finding more joy in normal life these days, more peace in the day to day, more excitement about my cup of delicious coffee in the morning, more love in the way Nolan asks every evening, "Nuggle, Mama? Nuggle?"
I used to be a self-proclaimed "Special Day Junkie." Now I love when my life is quiet and ordinary. Does that mean I'm getting old? Or wiser?
Regardless... Now that whirlwind of stress and chaos is over, it's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas around here... Joyful, peaceful, loving...just in time to take down the tree and all of the decorations.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Things I like about Texas
1. Micheal my brother lives there.
2. If a man has been anywhere in the general vicinity when I am getting into a vehicle with a piece of luggage, I have never been allowed to load it into that vehicle.
3. When I ordered fajitas and a margarita at the airport the other day, the woman asked me if my order was "for here or to go."
The End.
2. If a man has been anywhere in the general vicinity when I am getting into a vehicle with a piece of luggage, I have never been allowed to load it into that vehicle.
3. When I ordered fajitas and a margarita at the airport the other day, the woman asked me if my order was "for here or to go."
The End.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Things I like about the PNW
I like that everything is SO GREEN in the Pacific Northwest.
I like that when I'm there, I ALWAYS feel like curling up with a hot drink and a good book is a great idea, and I don't feel guilty if I spend a large amount of time curled up like that... because it's always rainy outside and cozy inside.
I like that the trees are HUGE.
I like that when the sun does come out, you're amazed at what is all around you, because when it's cloudy, you can't see it.
I like that three of my best girlfriends are there, and even though we haven't all been together in...years, when we went out for dessert one night and just sat down together, I felt like I was coming home. Like we met for dessert every Tuesday night to hang out and cry and laugh and be just us... just those silly college girls who are grown ups now, who still talk about boys and the hurt they cause, still talk about dreams and how they might reach them, still gush about the beauty in people, and the joy in the every day.
I like that the people are mountain, adventurey, Denverish people who can live without 300+days of sunshine a year.
I like that it feels... friendly. A little small town, but sophisticated and intelligent... I don't know, maybe it's that whole "I like to sit around coffee shops writing, talking, and acting intellectual" thing it's got going for it. I wonder if the fact that I like that culture makes me a snob. Or if it makes me one of those people who "likes to sit around coffee shops writing, talking, and acting intellectual." Even if I don't wear a beret or dress in all black.
I like that when I'm there, I ALWAYS feel like curling up with a hot drink and a good book is a great idea, and I don't feel guilty if I spend a large amount of time curled up like that... because it's always rainy outside and cozy inside.
I like that the trees are HUGE.
I like that when the sun does come out, you're amazed at what is all around you, because when it's cloudy, you can't see it.
I like that three of my best girlfriends are there, and even though we haven't all been together in...years, when we went out for dessert one night and just sat down together, I felt like I was coming home. Like we met for dessert every Tuesday night to hang out and cry and laugh and be just us... just those silly college girls who are grown ups now, who still talk about boys and the hurt they cause, still talk about dreams and how they might reach them, still gush about the beauty in people, and the joy in the every day.
I like that the people are mountain, adventurey, Denverish people who can live without 300+days of sunshine a year.
I like that it feels... friendly. A little small town, but sophisticated and intelligent... I don't know, maybe it's that whole "I like to sit around coffee shops writing, talking, and acting intellectual" thing it's got going for it. I wonder if the fact that I like that culture makes me a snob. Or if it makes me one of those people who "likes to sit around coffee shops writing, talking, and acting intellectual." Even if I don't wear a beret or dress in all black.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Things I like about Airports
1. It always feels exciting to go there. Even if you're just going to Texas.
2. When it's Christmas time, and I'm returning from a trip, it feels so.... Christmasy. So Joyful and Welcoming.
3. Watching people waiting for their loved ones to arrive... it is such a beautiful experience. I think I would enjoy coming to the airport to just people watch in the arrival area. When I come home from a trip when I parked at the airport, and I get off of the train, I always look for someone I know waiting for me at that arrival area. And I always get a little sad (I confess, sometimes I even get a bit teary-eyed) when there is no one there waiting for me. (Give me a break, I am usually coming home from a work trip where 4 hours of sleep is a good night's rest, and waking up at 4am is a normal experience.) Even when I know that no one will be there waiting for me, I still want to meet someone I love there and hug them hello. And the car hello when they pull up to the curb is still good, but it just isn't anywhere nearly as cool.
Every time I have flown home with the boys and Grammie Mel is waiting at the end of the hallway for us, I am overwhelmed with the beauty of this "reunion moment." She stands there past security calling out for Daniel, and Daniel runs as fast as his little legs will allow with his roller suitcase bouncing behind him. And they hug. And Daniel tells her about something silly, and they laugh. And then he jumps up and down for the next half hour that it takes to get the luggage and car seats and get to the car to see Papa Keys.
4. The smell of the curbside pickup arrival area. You know the spot that I'm talking about. Where you go after you get your luggage and someone drives by, loads you in the car and drives away? There is a smell there, and every single airport I've ever been to smells the same. Sometimes the experience is a bit different because of the season or place, but they all smell the same. And every single airport takes me back to one of two places. 1. The bus stop as a child. Waiting for the bus to pick me up or just getting dropped off, relieved to be home. 2. Waiting for my dad to pick me up from the airport to spend Christmas with the family.
Regardless, there is something so nostalgic to me in bus fumes. I know that's weird, but it makes me feel a little excited, a little nervous, a little relieved... Who'd a thunk? Bus fumes.
5. Most people are very much in need of a good laugh at the airport, because they're rushing or exhausted or listened to a child scream their whole flight. That makes it really easy for a joke to go over well, and smiling at other people for no particular reason is really well-received as well. I always like it when I have an easy audience.
2. When it's Christmas time, and I'm returning from a trip, it feels so.... Christmasy. So Joyful and Welcoming.
3. Watching people waiting for their loved ones to arrive... it is such a beautiful experience. I think I would enjoy coming to the airport to just people watch in the arrival area. When I come home from a trip when I parked at the airport, and I get off of the train, I always look for someone I know waiting for me at that arrival area. And I always get a little sad (I confess, sometimes I even get a bit teary-eyed) when there is no one there waiting for me. (Give me a break, I am usually coming home from a work trip where 4 hours of sleep is a good night's rest, and waking up at 4am is a normal experience.) Even when I know that no one will be there waiting for me, I still want to meet someone I love there and hug them hello. And the car hello when they pull up to the curb is still good, but it just isn't anywhere nearly as cool.
Every time I have flown home with the boys and Grammie Mel is waiting at the end of the hallway for us, I am overwhelmed with the beauty of this "reunion moment." She stands there past security calling out for Daniel, and Daniel runs as fast as his little legs will allow with his roller suitcase bouncing behind him. And they hug. And Daniel tells her about something silly, and they laugh. And then he jumps up and down for the next half hour that it takes to get the luggage and car seats and get to the car to see Papa Keys.
4. The smell of the curbside pickup arrival area. You know the spot that I'm talking about. Where you go after you get your luggage and someone drives by, loads you in the car and drives away? There is a smell there, and every single airport I've ever been to smells the same. Sometimes the experience is a bit different because of the season or place, but they all smell the same. And every single airport takes me back to one of two places. 1. The bus stop as a child. Waiting for the bus to pick me up or just getting dropped off, relieved to be home. 2. Waiting for my dad to pick me up from the airport to spend Christmas with the family.
Regardless, there is something so nostalgic to me in bus fumes. I know that's weird, but it makes me feel a little excited, a little nervous, a little relieved... Who'd a thunk? Bus fumes.
5. Most people are very much in need of a good laugh at the airport, because they're rushing or exhausted or listened to a child scream their whole flight. That makes it really easy for a joke to go over well, and smiling at other people for no particular reason is really well-received as well. I always like it when I have an easy audience.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
On Being a Cheerleader Part 2
I wrote in here a while ago about my BFF being a good egg, talking about how she is eager to give a compliment...a sincere compliment, and how that inspires me to want to blurt out the good things I see in others because it does a world of good for those who hear it.
Right now this BFF, Maryann, is doing something I can't and don't want to imagine. She is sitting by the man she loves, watching him die. He was diagnosed with cancer about a week and a half ago, given "weeks to live" a couple of days ago, and the day after that was told "it may just be days." Apparently this form of cancer is extremely rare, aggressive, and there are zero treatment options available.
The kicker of all of this is that as she sits there with his mom and dad, she writes a journal full of compliments on a website. She writes about her boyfriend, Tim, his strength and dignity in wrestling with death. She writes about hospice and the doctors and nurses, about how amazing and kind they are... She writes thank yous upon thank yous to people who have simply baked a pie or taken five minutes to write some kind words to Tim.
The other kicker is that Tim's mom, as she watches her son die, also writes about others' kindness, about the words from friends, from people she has never met... she writes about the "surprising sweetness" of being able to read the kind words of those love her son, the kind words we only write in the face of death.
I've been reading them too. Reading through the really cool things that others have to say about Tim. Reading through great tributes and thank yous and kind words and compliments, and I wonder, why do we wait until it might be too late for kind words?
The situation reminds me that there is no reason to keep kind words to ourselves. There is no reason to keep compliments and encouragement from others.
As always, I want to be like Maryann when I grow up. She is patient and kind and show tremendous strength in the most difficult situations.
I think maybe I will tell her that right now.
Right now this BFF, Maryann, is doing something I can't and don't want to imagine. She is sitting by the man she loves, watching him die. He was diagnosed with cancer about a week and a half ago, given "weeks to live" a couple of days ago, and the day after that was told "it may just be days." Apparently this form of cancer is extremely rare, aggressive, and there are zero treatment options available.
The kicker of all of this is that as she sits there with his mom and dad, she writes a journal full of compliments on a website. She writes about her boyfriend, Tim, his strength and dignity in wrestling with death. She writes about hospice and the doctors and nurses, about how amazing and kind they are... She writes thank yous upon thank yous to people who have simply baked a pie or taken five minutes to write some kind words to Tim.
The other kicker is that Tim's mom, as she watches her son die, also writes about others' kindness, about the words from friends, from people she has never met... she writes about the "surprising sweetness" of being able to read the kind words of those love her son, the kind words we only write in the face of death.
I've been reading them too. Reading through the really cool things that others have to say about Tim. Reading through great tributes and thank yous and kind words and compliments, and I wonder, why do we wait until it might be too late for kind words?
The situation reminds me that there is no reason to keep kind words to ourselves. There is no reason to keep compliments and encouragement from others.
As always, I want to be like Maryann when I grow up. She is patient and kind and show tremendous strength in the most difficult situations.
I think maybe I will tell her that right now.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Measuring Stick
There is a height chart at the door of Daniel's preschool, and every time we drop Daniel off and pick him up, Nolan has to measure himself. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. Now, I am not sure if it is because I say, "Wow, look how big you are!" each time he measures himself, or if it is because there is just something in us that needs to measure ourselves.
If it's a combination of the two, then that brings up something interesting. We need to measure ourselves in order to be given the reassurance that we are growing in the right direction. Now, I've noticed that for some people, it doesn't necessarily matter if we get an external "Look how big you are!" But we do need to know where we stand. I do. I need to know where I am with everything. Don't you?
I find myself doing the same thing Nolan does at Daniel's preschool. Every day I assess my home. Failure. Ugly window treatments. Clutter. Laundry all over the house not put away. Dishes in the sink. Not put away. Goobers and crumbs on the floor. Toys. Toys. Toys... with no place to go. You are on the very bottom of the "beautiful home" measuring stick, Emily.
I find myself doing this with motherhood. Daniel was screaming at and beating up Nolan yesterday after Jeff left for work. When his time out ended and I asked him what was going on, if he was sad because Daddy was gone, he started to cry and said this, "I am sad because I miss Daddy and it makes me feel better to be mean to Nolan." Talk about a measuring stick. Talk about my childhood. I am sure I am to blame for this.
What a weird thing sibling rivalry is too... It's all about establishing a pecking order. Who is the favorite? Who is the best at this? Who is better at that? Amazing how it develops our personalities and puts up roadblocks for things. Amazing how there exists a measuring stick there too.
The worst thing about operating with a need for a measuring stick is that often I use other people's comments to be my measuring stick. Someone gives me a compliment on my shoes, eyes, smile, and suddenly I'm a few notches up on the physical attractiveness measuring stick.
I don't take the time to work out for a week. I look in the mirror and notice that I have been wearing sweats all week, trying to look like I'm going to work out, but really just wind up looking like a slobby SAHM who has let herself go... 6 notches down on the physical attractiveness measuring stick.
I conduct a training. Something intelligent somehow comes out of my mouth during the presentation. A teacher writes down a comment about how great I am as a presenter. Way up on the measuring stick...
A teacher makes a comment about how I made them feel excluded from the conversation or how the curriculum isn't this or isn't that (something I don't actually have a lot of control over..) but still... WAY down on the measuring stick.
And one part of the problem is that people are a horrible measuring stick. People are emotional and irrational sometimes. Not to mention that our opinions are all very different about what is funny or clever or inspirational. Our expectations of each other are all over the place. Not to mention that we can't define what makes a good_________, but we sure do judge each other when we think someone else is a bad_________. Right?
I can't always put into words what makes a good writer, good mother, good wife, good cook, good friend, good teacher, good presenter, and I can't think of myself as a good--any of those things. Unless someone else says that I am a good_________. And I can only try for a repeat performance when other people say, "Wow, you make great carrot soup." or "I really enjoyed your blog about________ the other day." And if someone says something good about my writing or my cooking, I keep cooking. I keep writing. I keep the things that push me up on the invisible measuring stick. I don't even attempt the things that push me down on that same invisible measuring stick. And yet, there are voices in my head pushing me down on that measuring stick. I don't need anyone else to push me down. I put myself there...
So... how come I can't just create my own measuring stick for myself and stop relying on what others say or seem to think?
Because I'm my own worst critic?
Because I have completely unrealistic expectations of myself and of others?
Because I'm completely unreliable with what I deem as good writing, good mothering, good... based on my feelings of the day?
How come I can't just get rid of the measuring stick?
How come others can't just raise my stats on the measuring stick?
How come I don't just raise others' stats on their measuring sticks?
I keep trying to do that. I keep trying to write little notes or say the good things I see in people to raise their invisible measuring stick status.
But then I get in a bad mood. No one raises my measuring stick status. I start new birth control and my hormones go crazy and I hate my life. I scream at my kids and send my own measuring stick status into the toilet. I get so wrapped up in my own failing plummeting invisible measuring stick status that I stop looking for others' good things to raise them up, and I look for their crap to push them down. Or I push myself down because I forget to look for their good. And...
Again, I am an unreliable measuring stick. What if I had a reliable measuring stick that didn't change? What if that reliable measuring stick didn't even care how I measured up? And if my measuring stick dropped in the toilet, He would still love me and take me in...
Huh... guess I do. What if I actually accepted at trusted that?
If it's a combination of the two, then that brings up something interesting. We need to measure ourselves in order to be given the reassurance that we are growing in the right direction. Now, I've noticed that for some people, it doesn't necessarily matter if we get an external "Look how big you are!" But we do need to know where we stand. I do. I need to know where I am with everything. Don't you?
I find myself doing the same thing Nolan does at Daniel's preschool. Every day I assess my home. Failure. Ugly window treatments. Clutter. Laundry all over the house not put away. Dishes in the sink. Not put away. Goobers and crumbs on the floor. Toys. Toys. Toys... with no place to go. You are on the very bottom of the "beautiful home" measuring stick, Emily.
I find myself doing this with motherhood. Daniel was screaming at and beating up Nolan yesterday after Jeff left for work. When his time out ended and I asked him what was going on, if he was sad because Daddy was gone, he started to cry and said this, "I am sad because I miss Daddy and it makes me feel better to be mean to Nolan." Talk about a measuring stick. Talk about my childhood. I am sure I am to blame for this.
What a weird thing sibling rivalry is too... It's all about establishing a pecking order. Who is the favorite? Who is the best at this? Who is better at that? Amazing how it develops our personalities and puts up roadblocks for things. Amazing how there exists a measuring stick there too.
The worst thing about operating with a need for a measuring stick is that often I use other people's comments to be my measuring stick. Someone gives me a compliment on my shoes, eyes, smile, and suddenly I'm a few notches up on the physical attractiveness measuring stick.
I don't take the time to work out for a week. I look in the mirror and notice that I have been wearing sweats all week, trying to look like I'm going to work out, but really just wind up looking like a slobby SAHM who has let herself go... 6 notches down on the physical attractiveness measuring stick.
I conduct a training. Something intelligent somehow comes out of my mouth during the presentation. A teacher writes down a comment about how great I am as a presenter. Way up on the measuring stick...
A teacher makes a comment about how I made them feel excluded from the conversation or how the curriculum isn't this or isn't that (something I don't actually have a lot of control over..) but still... WAY down on the measuring stick.
And one part of the problem is that people are a horrible measuring stick. People are emotional and irrational sometimes. Not to mention that our opinions are all very different about what is funny or clever or inspirational. Our expectations of each other are all over the place. Not to mention that we can't define what makes a good_________, but we sure do judge each other when we think someone else is a bad_________. Right?
I can't always put into words what makes a good writer, good mother, good wife, good cook, good friend, good teacher, good presenter, and I can't think of myself as a good--any of those things. Unless someone else says that I am a good_________. And I can only try for a repeat performance when other people say, "Wow, you make great carrot soup." or "I really enjoyed your blog about________ the other day." And if someone says something good about my writing or my cooking, I keep cooking. I keep writing. I keep the things that push me up on the invisible measuring stick. I don't even attempt the things that push me down on that same invisible measuring stick. And yet, there are voices in my head pushing me down on that measuring stick. I don't need anyone else to push me down. I put myself there...
So... how come I can't just create my own measuring stick for myself and stop relying on what others say or seem to think?
Because I'm my own worst critic?
Because I have completely unrealistic expectations of myself and of others?
Because I'm completely unreliable with what I deem as good writing, good mothering, good... based on my feelings of the day?
How come I can't just get rid of the measuring stick?
How come others can't just raise my stats on the measuring stick?
How come I don't just raise others' stats on their measuring sticks?
I keep trying to do that. I keep trying to write little notes or say the good things I see in people to raise their invisible measuring stick status.
But then I get in a bad mood. No one raises my measuring stick status. I start new birth control and my hormones go crazy and I hate my life. I scream at my kids and send my own measuring stick status into the toilet. I get so wrapped up in my own failing plummeting invisible measuring stick status that I stop looking for others' good things to raise them up, and I look for their crap to push them down. Or I push myself down because I forget to look for their good. And...
Again, I am an unreliable measuring stick. What if I had a reliable measuring stick that didn't change? What if that reliable measuring stick didn't even care how I measured up? And if my measuring stick dropped in the toilet, He would still love me and take me in...
Huh... guess I do. What if I actually accepted at trusted that?
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Natural Ability vs. Natural Affection...
According to Malcolm Gladwell, it takes 10,000 hours of anything to become an "expert" at anything. The study found no cases on either end. No people who could become experts prior to spending 10,000 hours doing something, and no cases of people who put in the time and effort of 10,000 hours who did not become experts and excell in their field.
This makes me wonder about whether God gives us a natural ability to do certain things, or simply a natural affection for those things.
I write because I love to think, and I think in language. I am not sure why I think in words, sometimes in poetry, but never, ever in images.
Jeff knows how to cut images together at certain speeds that make them intensely exciting or sad, knows how to put images and music together to create a video experience that I would never imagine. He mentioned that the entire control room at work was full of tapes that he had to go through in order to find the right clips to make the Rockies History video. The thought of sifting through video clips in order to find the right images to put together an entire history of an organization made me physically nauseous.
It is so foreign to me that someone could "think in images."
I mentioned this the other night and Jeff said, "I thought everyone thought that way."
And it makes me wonder how other people think. How do you think? In words? Images? Smells? Could you think in smells?
But I think we have these natural gifts, these ways of seeing, thinking, feeling that are God-given. We have no control over them.
But we don't naturally have skills. We have to learn how to use those natural tools to access the world/our thoughts/responses to the world in order to become experts in whatever field God has given us to love.
What I mean is that for as long as I can remember, if something really moves me, I stop thinking normally and suddenly think in poetry.
I have a natural affection for words. I involuntarily take what I see, hear, feel, smell, or taste and translate that into words, but... I wasn't born knowing how to do that. I had to learn that skill. I had to learn the words. I had to play with rhyming and capitalizing and not capitalizing and not rhyming, and turn this into a metaphor or use anaphora to make this idea stand out, but stop the anaphora here so that these other ideas intentionally melded into the beginning thought or... I had to learn all of those things to become a better poet. The poems I write now are much better than those that I wrote in 7th grade, and I had to learn how to do that. I didn't know I was learning because "studying" doesn't sound fun, but I studied and studied and studied, when I was in middle and high school, this craft of poetry by reading it and writing it constantly. Do I have my 10,000 hours in? Probably not. But I might be getting close.
The point is that I do that because I LOVE it. It challenges me and drives me to continue to play and challenge myself. I wouldn't do it if I didn't love it.
I wasn't born a writer. But I was born to love to write.
This makes me wonder about whether God gives us a natural ability to do certain things, or simply a natural affection for those things.
I write because I love to think, and I think in language. I am not sure why I think in words, sometimes in poetry, but never, ever in images.
Jeff knows how to cut images together at certain speeds that make them intensely exciting or sad, knows how to put images and music together to create a video experience that I would never imagine. He mentioned that the entire control room at work was full of tapes that he had to go through in order to find the right clips to make the Rockies History video. The thought of sifting through video clips in order to find the right images to put together an entire history of an organization made me physically nauseous.
It is so foreign to me that someone could "think in images."
I mentioned this the other night and Jeff said, "I thought everyone thought that way."
And it makes me wonder how other people think. How do you think? In words? Images? Smells? Could you think in smells?
But I think we have these natural gifts, these ways of seeing, thinking, feeling that are God-given. We have no control over them.
But we don't naturally have skills. We have to learn how to use those natural tools to access the world/our thoughts/responses to the world in order to become experts in whatever field God has given us to love.
What I mean is that for as long as I can remember, if something really moves me, I stop thinking normally and suddenly think in poetry.
I have a natural affection for words. I involuntarily take what I see, hear, feel, smell, or taste and translate that into words, but... I wasn't born knowing how to do that. I had to learn that skill. I had to learn the words. I had to play with rhyming and capitalizing and not capitalizing and not rhyming, and turn this into a metaphor or use anaphora to make this idea stand out, but stop the anaphora here so that these other ideas intentionally melded into the beginning thought or... I had to learn all of those things to become a better poet. The poems I write now are much better than those that I wrote in 7th grade, and I had to learn how to do that. I didn't know I was learning because "studying" doesn't sound fun, but I studied and studied and studied, when I was in middle and high school, this craft of poetry by reading it and writing it constantly. Do I have my 10,000 hours in? Probably not. But I might be getting close.
The point is that I do that because I LOVE it. It challenges me and drives me to continue to play and challenge myself. I wouldn't do it if I didn't love it.
I wasn't born a writer. But I was born to love to write.
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