A New Method

To really know me,  you should understand that writing is at my core.  I’ve always done it, beginning at age five when I discovered how much I adored writing poetry. I’d effortlessly wax about things like God, love and death in bold blue pen and then cover my poems with tracing paper, gliding over the words with rainbow pencil. Over and over I’d copy the words. My words. And feel happy.  It was the beginning of a long love affair that would continue to have me in its passionate grips. But since becoming a mom nearly six years ago, it’s been sporadic at best. And now, here I sit, giving it a go again. Hello, lover.

The stage was set. It was a Friday morning at the end of September and I was without kids. In the initial back to school weeks, I had easily filled my seven free hours with cavity-filling, split end-trimming, sneaker to pavement, and mud-room organizing. (The stuff of life that as parents we so often find sizzling on our back burners.) It was time.

I headed down to the local coffee shop, which was bustling and bathed in blonde autumn light. My cowboy boots (an obvious sign that I had not only managed to find something other than yoga pants to wear but actually showered) clicked against the distressed wooden planks. I ordered a chai latte and found the perfect spot in the corner. It was a quiet nook at a high shiny table and was topped off by a view of the town’s center and a perfectly placed outlet for my Paleolithic-era laptop. (Literally, it held the last bits of my final undergraduate papers.) Although the m-key was wonky and there was no way this bad boy could pick up the buzzing wi-fi signal, it was perfect for me. Perfect to get connected without actually being connected.

I felt a little bit like a bobble head doll, unpacking my hefty, ancient laptop, wondering inside, “are they watching me? Do they know this is my first time bringing this bad boy out? Do they know that I have no idea what I am doing here?”

Turns out I was ready but not quite as prepared as I thought.  Though my head was teeming with ideas for my introductory post, I found that I was lacking the Paleolithic-plug that would power my laptop to life. Oops.

Flushed in my cheeks, I dashed out to the car for my saving grace. I returned to the shop and sat at the high, honey colored counter once again, this time with my Bic Soft Feel pen. I’m short and in situations like these, find myself dreaming that one day booster seats for adults will become totally appropriate. Wishing for a bit more height,  I felt  like a five year old, laying all of my paper out and trying to set myself up in a proper adult fashion.

“Relax.” I whispered to myself. “You belong here.”

I exhaled and released the to-do list, the buzzing, the feeling I had of being so new and so unprepared. And the breathing started to work.  I  heard the gentle murmur of shared conversations, the rhythmic clacking of the laptop next to me, the metallic tinny clinking of spoon to mug. It was music and I was the composer.

My Bic soft feel?  Turns out it still has plenty of life left. It took me a little longer, but I’m no dinosaur. Inside I’m still a giddy five year old, writing and tracing, writing and tracing.