It is 7:18 AM on Easter Sunday morning. I have been up since 4:52 AM, thanks to American Airlines, because I promised to pick up my daughter and son-in-law at the airport, as they arrived home from their honeymoon and their flight was delayed 6 hours. I cannot go back to sleep, maybe because I asked my daughter to bring me a cup of coffee on her way out of the terminal, maybe because a zillion thoughts go through my head the minute it hits my pillow, maybe because even diligently counting down from 100 to 0, I am still wide awake. So, I drag my 55 year old body with its creaks and aches out of my bed and I arise to be a writer, to feed the passion I too often neglect.
Why is it the things we love the most we take for granted or seem to not grant enough precious time for? Last year, my writing fed my soul, it defined me, even made me feel whole and worthy. This year I am full of excuses to forsake it, shamefully. Possibly it's due to my tendency to procrastinate; a bad habit I have always had. Procrastination is a very tricky thing to tame, because of its perpetual nature- I continually procrastinate about ceasing to procrastinate. Or could it be that my frame for writing was about three generations- my mother, my daughter and I? I could easily write about myself and my mother, but I hesitated many times writing about the generation of youth to give my daughter the privacy she needed. Consequently, I felt hindered by my theme. Nevertheless, I have forgiven myself (strange coincidence that it is Easter) and I have decided to begin again. As Eli Weisel puts it I write to understand as much as to be understood.
The dawn has broken and the sunlight dares to appear after a dreary rainy Saturday. Hello Sun, please stay awhile. Easter is always one holiday I remember well from my childhood, because despite that we were the only Jews in a very Catholic neighborhood, my mother insisted on dressing us up for Easter. We wore beautiful little suits, topped off with hats or "Easter bonnets". My favorite suit one year was a yellow one made out of a course, nubby fabric. We would take pictures in front of the house and then roam around the neighborhood with nothing to do, because after all, it wasn't our holiday. However, it was a day my father was off and he would take us sometimes for rides in the car. One Easter I recall my cousin Janie staying with us and she got dressed up as well. We went for a walk and ended up in front of a church. We looked at each other, and just to see how it felt, boldly made the sign of the cross on our chests. Then we took off, running away, giggling at our temerity.
Is it human nature to pretend to be something that we are not? Or is it just part of the search to discover who we really are? Two days ago it was my 55th birthday. Five has always been my lucky number and I had written in my New Year's blog that this was the year of duality; there were many double numbers to be celebrated, aside from the obvious duplex "ones" of the new year. I still don't know the significance of this except that I decided to make it significant. I have a tendency to do that; I create meaning to things that others would find meaningless.
My birthday came and went just like the 54 that proceeded it. I think I got over 100 birthday wishes on my facebook page; although, I gave up counting. My mother forgot that it was my birthday because she didn't know that Friday was the 22nd and she doesn't have a calendar in her room like she used to. My 94 year old Aunt Dorothy reminded her, when she called. We went out to dinner at a new restaurant, which had an acoustic guitar player for entertainment and coincidently when we arrived he began to sing Happy Birthday, only it was for someone named Dean, not Jean. I started to make this significant, but abandoned that idea almost immediately. I had a red velvet cake for dessert, which the waitress brought over with one flickering candle and she, Mark and my mother sang Happy Birthday to me, without the acoustic guitar and Lindsay and Scott, who were on their honeymoon and Kim, who was working. My best friend, Meryl, had called when I had just arrived at the restaurant and sang to me, though. I made a wish, that I regret making and now I have to wait a whole year to make a new birthday wish. I should have wished to become an authentic, published writer, to get up each morning and go to my new office (Lindsay's old room) that I spent all of Wednesday cleaning up and organizing, and write every day. Instead I made some silly wish for a promotion in my job in a company that has 37,000 other employees in it. It's not really what I want. I had forgotten what I wanted. I had forgotten the thing that comes out of the core of my being- to write.
The night before my birthday, I had a strange dream about becoming a teacher again. I think it is because in my search for the right career, I think of going back to the classroom. Then I usually have a dream that confirms this would not be the best move because nothing ever goes smoothly in my "dream classroom". And then I start to question my real career of coaching teachers, because if my dream reveals that I am struggling back in my own classroom, then maybe I have no business coaching teachers. My grandma Fanny always said "Never go backwards." So, maybe my dreams are telling me to move forward, so this is what I will do. I just wish I had that birthday wish I wasted back.
I have already over written 1,000 words and it's only two days past my birthday, so phooey to the promotion wish. (Did you know that phooey is an actual word?) Well, in any case, I am moving on and up and I'm going to buy a desk for my new office and start over. That will be my birthday present to me.
I am done pretending. I AM a writer.
