The happiest time in my life, aside from childhood of course, but I'm talking about relatively recent history, is when I was travelling in Australia.
I've been trying to figure out exactly what made that experience so memorable and why I able to be the person then that I really want to be.
I really do believe that it was because I had time. While some of that time was used going around to various museums and parks and beaches and on various hikes and of course, sampling the best coffee in various cities -- much of what made those times resonate with me was that I was writing about them as they happened.
At every moment I was thinking about how I would describe what I was seeing or doing to the people who read me at home. And I would write whatever I was thinking or feeling. And I thought and felt a lot.
Often, a destination was just an excuse to sit down and write in a very beautiful, inspirational spot. And in fact, every place I went became the perfect writing opportunity. If it wasn't particularly beautiful, I waited and watched until I found the interest or peculiarity of the place.
I found beauty in everything around me.
I was mindful.
And the writing flowed.
It was utterly effortless.
Now I sit down at my computer at the end of a long day at, well, the computer, and I try to think of what engaging, insightful tidbit I can extract out of the melee. And sometimes, I don't even get around to doing that.
You may not have noticed the change, as maybe you've just met me. But I'll bet if you read my
archives from March 2003-March 2004 you'll understand. Something happened. Something changed.
Yes, we are always changing. I accept that.
But hopefully, we are changing for the better. And I really am disappointed to think that perhaps I have changed for the worse.
When did I stop writing?
When did I start letting go of the thing that I love so much? It's been my passion since I was a little girl. I'll tell you -- as I know you didn't know me then -- I had volumes of pages written on a variety of imaginative themes. I still have all of the binders filled with all of the handwritten, crossed-out, scrap paper and work books.
Back then, I used my imagination to create an ideal future, packed with intriguing boyfriends and witty dialogue and fantastic outfits. Sometimes I even admitted that I was the main character. Other times, I called them such enviable names as "Kit" and "Brooke".
I even co-wrote adventures with my best teenage friend, Heather. We spent an entire summer writing what we called "Imagines" that involved elaborate scenes of what our lives would be like if we were dating our teen band heartthrobs.
And now?
Now, my furious personal scrawls that generated a monstrous writer's bump have given way to electronic tappings that are saved and filed, tagged by topic, posted to various electronic journals that are shared with the world. Should they want to read them.
Now, I post a smattering of rants about the environment, the pains of home ownership and the whinings of a frustrated woman trying to have a mature relationship without a roadmap.
I suppose my writing (my real writing) stopped when I stopped fulfilling another life mantra: live life with passion. Although which came first, I don't know.
I want to regain the Cathy who lived with passion. I want to start writing again.
Cross-posted from WebGoddessCathy on MySpace.
