Change.
That word was playing over and over in my mind on my drive home today. I started thinking about all the songs or sayings that use it.
A change is gonna come.
Times, they are a -changin'.
A change will do you good
Change your mind, and the rest will follow
Be the change you wish to see in the world
Everything changes...
Why doesn't anyone ever talk about how hard change is?
I swear to god, high school was just four years of algebra, fast food and drama. It would have been cool to have a teacher say, "Once you get out of here, shit gets real."
And there's so much shit.
I feel like I'm always changing, trying to figure out the figurative shit.
And tonight my goal was to write about all of it. Or at least a big piece of it. Heh. A big 'ol piece of shit. But instead, something changed.
I was sitting with my laptop open, reading the closed captions on TV of No. 45's speech to Congress because I can't stand the sound of his voice when the doorbell rang. The Fella was expecting friends so I wasn't surprised. They came in and we discussed politics like people for a little while.
While we talked about how things have, well... changed lately, my eyes kept drifting to the blinking cursor of this blog. I've wanted to write for a while now and I've started a couple of times but I always get stuck. It's not as though my mind is quiet. In fact, sometimes it's screaming. But I can't find the right words to describe my current changes.
I used to write stories. I had a whole series about a brontosaurus named Belinda. I wrote really weird and dark poetry when my hair and clothes were black. I used to write pages of things that pissed me off or letters I've never sent. Today I wrote a list of 20 of my favorite books.
When I was in 5th grade, at the suggestion of my teacher and encouragement from my mom, I joined a creative writing class. Every afternoon while the other kids went out for last recess, I sat in the school library with 3 other kids. We wrote sentences together and compared ideas. The librarian's name was Mrs. Hinkley and she had kind eyes, even when she challenged me.
"Why did you decide to write, 'she fell ill' instead of 'she got sick'?" Mrs. Hinkley asked me, pointing to a sentence I'd carefully constructed. I remember looking up at her a little scared that I'd done something wrong. She was kind, but she was a grown up and I was ten. She reminded me a little of my grandma which intimidated the heck out of me and made me want to hug her. I thought there couldn't be a better job in this world than to work in the library. I desperately wanted to impress her.
"Um. Well....I saw it in a book and thought it sounded better. More...um...like it really is. When you get sick, it feels like you're falling into it."
I could feel the other kids staring at me and knew my cheeks were turning pink. Gah, why did I say that? I waited for Mrs. Hinkley to respond, my stomach a ball of nerves.
She looked down at me over her glasses and those kind eyes were smiling. She placed her hand on my shoulder, "You're in the right place."
Five words and I felt like I could write anything. That might be why I thought the goth poetry was good. Maybe it was. It doesn't matter. At the time it was what I needed to write, more importantly, it was how I needed to write.
Time may change me, but I can't trace time.
I know that even if I can't find the right words immediately, they'll come.
Usually on the winds of change.