Some four or five months ago I wrote a post called “Lessons in Love,” but I got stuck on my conclusion and when I left it be for a few days, I came down with mono, had to drop two classes, and never touched it again.
In the meantime, my life has only continued to swell with the force of love imbuing every moment of every day with vibrancy. My poetry became richer. My love of math, somehow deeper (and more fractured the same, but that’s another story). And my commitment to and appreciation of my friends and family only blossomed beyond comprehension.
Something changed, as I wrote those words, but like the onset of an illness–the swift and unknowing inhalation of an unseen germ or two–this transformation had already begun.
Have you ever started writing with a point in mind, and noticed by the time you finished writing you’d never really gotten there? Earlier this week I wrote a post about mourning monsters–reflecting on the inspiration that childhood pastimes like Pokemon and Digimon gave me (and continue to give me)–but that hadn’t been my intent.
Not my original intent anyways.
Instead I wanted to write something wild. A story of man against nature.
I’ve been reading through my archives in preparation for relaunching my blog next month, and paging through my personal history has been both trying and inspiring. At its most basic, it feels insurmountable, and with posts averaging about 1200 words each and over 350 posts, that’s a wall of 0.4 million words to read through, all while balancing committee duties, education, and personal wellness goals.
However, it’s been amazing to watch the evolution of my writing quality from month to month, which has given me hope my blog will continue to improve as time moves on–especially after it’s been visually and thematically remastered in the coming weeks. It has also reminded me of some often forgotten ideas that could continue to bring light into my life if I take my own words, said so long ago, to heart now.
Most amazing of all is how, given time, my words of yesterday have grown into blossoming trees today.
Have you ever had a moment when suddenly everything became clear? I’m made to think of days when you look out the window and you can count every leaf on every tree because, for some way you can’t discern, the sun has decided to shine on every one of them–and you don’t know why, but you count those leaves, each and every one of them, and for days, nothing is the same. You know these leaves intimately, you know these trees. And then the clouds roll in, dawn turns to dusk, and somehow all that clarity is clouded curiosity.
Alas, the epiphany. It comes. It goes.
In writing, there’s a trend–so my textbook would insist–for new writers to rely too heavily on epiphanies to develop characters and move plots along. I’m almost certain I’ve fallen for this at times, but I can’t seem to recall any concrete examples in some of my stories. I’m generally opposed to sudden changes in anything, and epiphanies seem too easy sometimes for me to even want to use them much.
Actually, I knew it was Thursday, I just forgot it was Thankful Thursday.
But just because it’s not Thursday is no reason not to be thankful! In fact, we should be thankful everyday, not just on Thursdays, so being a day late is no reason to not talk about another thing I’m thankful for.