July 31, 2011

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A Letter To Me I was listening to music on the radio today because Aubri told me she didn’t want to listen to NPR. The song, “A Letter to Me,” was playing, and I have always loved it. It’s just a great idea, and as I listened to it I wonder what I would want to tell my teenage self. While thinking it over, I could only come up with a few things I would want my high school self to know. The following is not in any particular order. 1. 85 mph in a 55 zone is not as normal in Virginia than California. Be careful. 2. Make sure you eat more than just nachos the last day of the Las Vegas vball tournament. You might save yourself a knee injury. Better yet, since that is also the day Grandma dies, you should really leave the tournament early. 3. Learn how to use the phone rather than the internet. It is more effective, faster, and definitely not as scary once you get enough practice. Trust me, I spent three years of 40 hours a week practicing. 4. You knew he would at the beginning, but Rob chooses Leah. You get someone else, and really pretty kids. P.S. Once you go black, you never go back. 5. Enjoy your body. 6. I know you are always practicing, but try working out on your own. Begin to appreciate the rewards of conditioning and strength training. You’ll get to eat more. 7. It is mean to call someone’s mother, “old.” With today’s life spans, 80 is the new 60, and 60 the new 40. 8. When Ms. Hawkins says you need to “polish” your story, ask her to help you. 9. Once you read Jane Austen once, you catch on to the language. It might seem difficult to get through at first, but read her now. You become a big fan of British Literature and constantly wish you’d read more. 10. I still have all of those books you stole from the school library. *Wink* 11. Thank Mrs. DeWoody. Write a letter. 12. There’s a reason you liked doing everybody’s English homework. That practice of taking 5 vocabulary words and writing them into a paragraph pays off. 13. You don’t regret quitting softball. 14. Never adjust the heater at home. You miss out on a lot during that grounding. Like spring break. 15. Hot pockets burn. But you already know that. 16. You are so not going to be a missionary. 17. That quote book is awesome. And try not to lose your senior yearbook. Odette actually does become famous and you are going to want to auction that sucker off on eBay or sell her picture to a tabloid eventually. 18. On second thought, it is probably kind of dumb to rhyme your valedictorian speech. 19. Never, ever, tell a girl she has small tits. Don’t you think she is self-conscious about that already? And especially don’t do it in front of a guy. You...
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A Writing Life A person who writes experiences life differently. The power of words to stimulate, express, relieve, draw attention to, and acknowledge something’s worth empowers a writer to touch the world’s pulse of anxiety or beauty or truth, and capture it. When I write, my thought life is always active. I mull, probe, analyze, and sum ideas up constantly. I look at my kid and think about writing. I work on the budget and plan a blog about personal finance. I read articles and craft responses. I listen to a sermon or an interview and transcribe parts I find poignant. I connect concepts and bridge ideas. A study of Elijah becomes a Googling of jihad, which leads to reading about women in the Middle East, and ends with research on immigration. It’s kind of amazing. Most of the time, all this thinking about writing stays in my brain. Occasionally it eeks out through ink and gets itself seen in words, and those are the times I feel most at peace with myself. I used to journal my prayers, and that became one of the only ways I could pray. With a lack of time to myself with a pen and paper (I spend way too much time working on the computer), I have since gotten away from regular journaling. My prayer life seems much less tangible because I don’t see my prayers as things of permanence—they merely wander off into the atmosphere instead of proving their existence as when I harness them into written words—but it does feel a little more free, too, since my brain has always roamed faster than I could write. I guess everything has its give and take. When I write, I get to see a little bit of myself, and I like me more. In a weird way, reading what I’ve written operates as a sort of mirror; the words reflect back a small piece of my thoughts, emotions, and way of being. Seeing myself made permanent in this way makes me feel like I’ve slowed time down a bit, and for a moment I am just me instead of mommy or wife or coach or teacher or cleaner or banker or any number of roles I’ve assigned myself. When I feel jumbled or confused, I gain focus from writing. From focus comes understanding, and from understanding acceptance. I can look back at what I wrote and remember exactly where (and probably, who) I was when I wrote it. I guess I’m telling myself I should really write more often.

Rachel

I am learning how to connect.

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