Some things, I find, are too precious to be shared. Like a priceless jewel, they are best kept secreted away; handled and admired in private.
A vivid memory surfaces. September: first week of school. The teacher’s voice, like chalk streaking across a blackboard, screeching the assignment, Write an essay titled, My Summer Vacation.
I picture myself staple-gunned to the board. My whole self, exposed.
Ignoring the homework was not an option. Okay, it was, but the consequence was an ‘F.’ Not a good way to start the school year. So I used my imagination and wrote about a make-believe trip. In other words…I lied. Shhhh!
My summer vacation included friendships, family outings, shared moments and experiences; some too happy, or too sad to put into words. But it was mostly about all of the places I went within myself that made me grow and go back to school just a little bit older and wiser.
I cannot express how I felt sitting out on the fire-escape staring up at the night sky and dreaming of worlds beyond the stars, in spite of the car hor
ns and fire engines whizzing by. Sometimes my elder brother would join me and point out various constellations; he knew all of their names. Or he’d tell me tales from Greek mythology, like The Wings of Icarus. I knew there was a lesson in that one; follow your parent’s advice.
And why would I want to tell anyone what it was like to go to the Hayden Planetarium with my brother, or share a secret and a hero sandwich with a new friend, or quietly walk shoulder to shoulder with my best friend while eating a Mister Softy ice-cream cone?
Reveal my treasures in an essay?
To a stranger?
For a grade?
I don’t think so!
Which brings me back to the topic of writing, or not. That is the question; though the fact that I ask it seems to provide the answer, “Not.”
I am most content when writing just for myself, or for a small circle of intimate friends. The coffee, sweets, and conversations we share last a life-time and deepen our relationships.
That is the reader and the audience I cherish most.
See you next time on October 22nd.
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Featured Author Veronica Jorge credits her love of history to the potpourri of cultures that make up her own life and to her upbringing in diverse Brooklyn, New York.
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It’s the dead of winter and I’m still raking leaves and collecting branches that the winds have broken and scattered; all of which will eventually be ground into mulch and reused and reclaimed to nourish the soil. I even pick up a few feathers from fallen birds; taking off my gloves to feel the smoothness of the feathers, and to admire the colors and designs in each one.
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Featured Author Veronica Jorge credits her love of history to the potpourri of cultures that make up her own life and to her upbringing in diverse Brooklyn, New York.
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Featured Author Veronica Jorge credits her love of history to the potpourri of cultures that make up her own life and to her upbringing in diverse Brooklyn, New York.
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The last of the leaves have fallen from the trees and covered the ground in colors of orange, yellow, red and green.
Nothing Found
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Enjoyed your article, Veronica. Writing, or not, is such a subjective thing, isn’t it? We all write for different reasons and I agree with you that some things are just too precious to air to the public and we want to keep them secret, to be shared only with a few. I also think that I could never write for others, to cater to a taste or a market. I write my best when I let it flow as naturally as my breath, and that cannot be contrived. It just has to happen in its own way when it will. I call it my meditation, actually. And it arises from all things universal.
Thank you for this post.
Thank you for that reflection, Neetu. Seems like we have alot in common.
Glad we do, Veronica. 🙂
Yes, Neetu. Me too.