Before I Could Write
I’ve been writing since before I knew how. I was writing in my head through images and colors, while petting my cats or playing with my stuffed animals. I’d sit, treat them gently, close my eyes, and imagine a meadow on the top of a large hill, eating berries with my teddy bear.
People assumed his name was a childish “Bear-y.” No. I named him “Berry” because I had been with him in the meadows. We sat upon the hill together in the summertime, when the breeze was warm and gentle, and carried the sweet aroma of ripe berries. The grass underneath us was sharp, but so abundant it somehow provided a soft cushion, like that childhood novelty toy, where you place the apparatus of pins on your face and then take it away to see your imprint. The grass, here, was our imprint. So, we sat there, Berry and I, and we’d eat berries, which I imagined to be blackberries, and laugh at tickling ladybugs. The child who sits alone is not always lonely.
As I got older, I became, I suppose, more rambunctious or, at least, naughty. My primary punishment was to “Go and sit on the stairs!” So, I would. The house we lived in then had a wooden staircase shaped like an “L,” with a long back and two stubby legs. I’d sit on the very top step and, when the coast was clear, sneak into my room and grab a book to read. My room had a fantastic library. Caps for Sale, Yummers, The Very Last, First Time, were some of my favorites. Back then, books still smelled like a lost forest, and I loved breathing them in. On the staircase, there was a convenient hallway rug, where I would shove my book underneath, when I heard someone coming near.
Reading is also a form of writing. When you read, you allow your mind to imagine. So, you, dear reader, are writing with me right now. Even if, someday, you are listening to this as an audiobook or feeling it in braille.
I enjoyed learning to write. Letters were like artwork with their swoops and curves, though, like anything, they took practice. I remember standing at the chalkboard in school, shaping a lowercase “a” beside another girl’s letter. When the class voted on which letter they preferred, mine was not chosen. Still, even then, something in the act of forming letters felt right to me—as if, when pen finally met paper with ease, I had found something I’d been missing.
I think the first personal essay I ever wrote was in elementary school. It was either the 2nd, 3rd, or 4th grade. I remember we were supposed to write something about the weather. I wrote about the snow and reflected on why it didn’t snow here as it did in other places. I mused about life and if the world was changing. In the fifth grade, I wrote a story akin to Mario with magical pipe-portals and a male duo. I was, after all, a child.
Today, my writing continues to evolve. Every experience, lived or imagined, continues to shape me. Because we are creators, one and all– the written word would not be the written word without our imagination.
Let me whisper one thing, friend– we are imagining our future. So, let’s imagine good thoughts. Let’s go to our personal meadow–where there’s peace, laughter, wonder, and joy. Let’s write our life story and once again share blackberries with our best friend.
