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InkTober 2017: Day 13 – Teeming

I love words. However, the word ‘teeming’, from the InkTober prompt list, did not conjure up a single image I could easily draw nor that I wanted to – yes, I did know its meaning immediately. I had to think long and hard before coming up with something that wouldn’t take me hours of detailed line-drawing to sketch or make my skin crawl. When I finally did think of something – it wasn’t a swarm of maggots 😉 –, it was more about a story than an image. After thinking for a while, my brain began teeming with words and memories. I hope that my sketch for the prompt makes sense to more people than me.

My brain is always teeming with words. Partly because I have a tendency to overthink EVERYTHING, but more likely because I learned to read at an early age: I learned to read sometime before I turned four years old. When I started attending junior/pre-kindergarten classes in elementary school, I was already reading. My mother has told stories about being upset because my teacher(s), and school administrative staff, questioned her about whether she had made a mistake and might I be older than what she listed on my registration form.

My mother was not amused that anyone, let alone a young kindergarten teacher, could think she didn’t know the age of her own child. Her annoyance intensified further because that same teacher and the school administration continued questioning, for some time, the likelihood of a four-year-old child learning to read as well as I could so much earlier than what was considered “normal” by academic standards. My memories of that situation aren’t clear. However, I do remember that my mother was not thrilled that when we went out, I felt the need to put my literacy skills to use. I would read EVERY billboard, poster, and road sign as we drove along in the car or traveled by public transit; and while it made my father proud, it drove her bonkers.

As I grew, so did my love for words. When I was a teenager, I was such a word nerd that I used to sit in my room and read the dictionary for hours at a time. No one who knows me well should be surprised by that admission. Additionally, I always gave myself summer-reading assignments. Not to punish myself, but to help the time pass more quickly and to keep my mind occupied. I was also the type of kid that carried a book wherever I went. In case I was the only child at an event I could prevent myself from dying of boredom, or if we were spending time with a family or friends whose children I didn’t quite like I could pretend I was reading homework.

The gift of learning to read at such an early age might be the reason that words are so important to me. I’m interested in their history, how to spell them, how to use them together, whether we use them correctly or incorrectly (e.g. there’s no such word as ‘irregardless’), when to emphasize them, and how they sound. I love writing and listening to long lines of alliteration. Can you see and hear what I did there?

I also know that words can hold tremendous power. Depending on how well one knows another person, we can choose the right words to express affection towards them and make them feel loved and secure. Alternatively, words can deeply wound at exactly the right moment with lasting traumatic effect. This, to me, means that we should always choose the words we speak to each other with care; and these last points may be the most important thing I know about words.

 

InkTober 2017: Day 12 – Shattered

I try hard to care for the things I own, especially things gifted to me by someone who cares for me. Unfortunately, sometimes we can’t protect the things we love and in the worst cases they may shatter into too many pieces too small to be repaired. Moreover, things aren’t all that can shatter. People and their lives can be shattered. Whether it’s because of actions they take themselves or circumstances beyond their control such as illnesses and injuries, accidents, or the loss of a job.

I recently broke a small painted terracotta bowl. It was one of a set of five gifted to me by one of my former teachers. Whenever I use these bowls, I do so with great care because of who gave them to me. Mrs. W is a retired teacher from my old high school. She didn’t teach me then but we developed a friendship many years after I graduated. What I learned about her during that time is that she is one of the kindest most generous people alive. She genuinely cares for people, even people she’s never met but support through whatever she can donate to charities.

Some years ago, I was a direct recipient of her care at a time when I was going through an unbearably difficult situation. I didn’t have to ask for her help. When she learned I was in need I didn’t have to ask for anything because her offer was immediate. During that time, and since, she mothered me, she fed me, and she listened to me; because she knew that was what I needed. For that reason, as small as they are, the bowls she gave me connect me to those moments and embody their deep emotions; and breaking one of them felt like creating a crack in our connection.

I probably feel so strongly about breaking that bowl because I don’t see Mrs. W as often as I might like, so keeping them as an intact set has been important to me. Moving forward I must be mindful to take better care of them, and the many other things she gifted me, with much care and love.

 

 

InkTober 2017: Day 11 – Run

Today is a high pain day, so this will be a short post.

I’ve written in past posts that I used to be a runner. Running was a big part of my life at different times in my life. When I was young, it was about fun, school rivalry and competition, and winning. Winning a race was always a good, actually a euphoric feeling. One of the best wins came in junior high school when I won a major City race in a field my coach decided to test me in. I couldn’t believe I won that race because I wasn’t supposed to; I wasn’t even supposed to run it. So winning it gave the skinny little girl that I was a huge boost in self-confidence.

As I got older running became one of my biggest teachers. It taught me about toughness and self-reliance. When you’re out alone, in terrible weather, running a long route you have no one to rely on but yourself and you have to be tough to make it to the finish. Through this, I learned to respect the limits of my body. It’s one thing to tell yourself you can push through a little extra pain, but when that pain is indicative of an injury, you have to listen to your body. You have to stop, allow yourself to heal, and then try again at another time, which isn’t something I’ve always respected and ended up paying a price for it.

Running also taught me about healthy competition. The biggest message being that I am always my biggest competitor. Personal bests are called personal bests for a reason. That reason being that we shouldn’t be comparing ourselves to the accomplishments or the abilities of others: that’s a certain path to unhappiness. Furthermore, when we dig deep, it should be about self-improvement without harsh self-criticism. And the solitude, in which runners often exist – and introverts like me crave – gives one the time and opportunities for self-reflection to work through many internal conflicts and big life issues.

I miss having the ability to run for all these reasons and so many more. If you’re a runner I hope you’re taking advantage of every moment of this freeing activity that you have.