journaling

April 26, 2010

Last night, a friend and I went to dinner. In the midst of conversation, she told me I should take up journaling again - writing for myself.

Something in what she said caught me. Something about pen and paper you can feel. Something about writing for one's own conscience -- one's own heart. It caught me because I've felt an acute need, as of late, to be much simpler. I'd like to think about the next thing. To not so much be the kind of woman that gets asked if she solved the world's problems at coffee (though you shouldn't have any doubts about me doing so).

If I were to journal tonight, it would read something like -

Missing mom today. Wishing I could sit at the island in our kitchen, and drink coffee with her. I didn't get enough of her on our last visit. Miss Beta as well, who has been asking to call me everyday, and yells "Shanny, are you still talking to me?" every time I take a breath. Mom says she makes people happy everywhere they go.


I miss feeling that belonging of a place that accepts you as you are. Being away is never quite the same, and, lately, I feel gawky and 12 again -- wanting to be back with a father who has always seemed to believe in the probability of my accomplishing more than the boys could. Is this normal for someone who is grown? My therapist says to create my own normal.


I'm trying.


Daddy asked me when I leave for Africa, this afternoon. He's always sent me off with an, "I wish I were going with you. Do you know what kind of opportunity this is?" And I know he was made to be my father. It makes so much sense that the two of us would have been placed in each other's lives. He moves me forward.


I sat on Afua's rommate's desk tonight, feet up on her swivel chair, and told her about my week. We went to dinner, laughing on a bench outside while a father kept running after his toddler son, bent on running into the road. Found a ferris wheel on the way home. Just closing, and a middle school boy tried to weazle us out of two dollars, claiming he was the one collecting, and we couldn't get in.


Called his bluff. Yelled to the man running the rides.


Closed.


Afua laughed at me for taking pictures.


Home to sheets in the dryer. Warm, and I make my bed after holding them close to me and feeling the warmth on my face. Hoping to sleep better than last night. Looking forward to coffee. French pressed. I'll have to make it tomorrow, whoever made it this AM likes it weaker than I do.


Hoping to sleep more than eight hours.

1 comments:

Kelly@TearingUpHouses said...

I love this, "...I'd like to...not so much be the kind of woman that gets asked if she solved the world's problems at coffee (though you shouldn't have any doubts about me doing so)..." SO, so, so much that I might have to plaster it on my bathroom mirror.

Kelly