If I could write the book of my life, it would begin. Not sure how, but I know it would begin. I'm blowing off school work to write to you tonight, on this semi-stormy, cold January night.
You know when I said that much of my life was imaginary when I was younger...? Well, truth be told, my head still gets caught in clouds. Half in this world, half in another is how an old friend described me once. She had a postcard of a woman who looked almost ghostlike and said this reminded her of me. Even though an eery pause followed her comment, I agreed.
My feet are now more planted on this earth, mind you, particularly since meeting Eric almost eight years ago. Meeting him was when I truly stopped avoiding intimacy and dodging potentially serious, tragic rejection. I decided to commit myself to the fear and trembling that subtly erupted when he was in the room. Finally, I had found a man who was worth the insomnia, the bottles of Tums, and the perspiration. And by golly, there was just no falling in love without coming inside out in the process.
At any rate, now that another digression has passed...I still live much of life with pillowy cotton coming out my ears. (Even presently, when my eight month old son demands me to be in the here and now.) You may have noticed this already, since I have several different imaginary passions. As I've mentioned before, I envision myself as a grand cook, a published writer, and an accomplished something creative - aside from being a teacher, that is.
The beauty of all of this hypothetical talent or dream-making is that I am writing. And I mean, I am seeing more about what I can write and how - even though not all of it gets to the page or the cyber world. I actually feel OK about being a writer, without scoffing under my breath like Holden Caufield, muttering that I am some phony.
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