Do you like words? ……
I love words. I love vowels, I love punctuation, I love language whether it be rich or completely basic. I think that it is wonderful to sit somewhere and listen to what somebody has to say, or read something that somebody has written. I love looking at a persons mouth and to see their very own wonderful and individual way in which they form words and sentences. Their expressions, and how a laugh has such a wonderful way of complimenting happy words.
Oh yes, I love words. I often think sometimes what my purpose in this life is. To be honest it enters my head everyday. I know I am not alone in this. I don’t think that it means I am very unhappy with how my current profession has moulded me, but, I never knew how wonderful it feels to let your own words out.
When I was a little girl, I was a day-dreamer. I still am. I used to be scolded and punished for not being very bright. What I mean by not being very bright is, not being able to recite my mathematics tables, or do my maths very well. And it amazed me, I would often think to myself, “How do these people bore themselves with books upon books of boring numbers on a page, this endless infinite chase of numbers, all just to narrow it down to one little denominator…when there are so many bright and wonderful things around us, and things to be explored”. I would bury myself in books about lands far away with mystical creatures and wonderful imaginative tails that fed my endless hunger for knowing about other things that had nothing to do with numbers. You see, numbers don’t go very well with words. Words are so much more interesting. Words can paint pictures, they can build bridges, they can touch hearts and minds, and they can give a girl like me the outlet to vent my love for them.
It never occurred to me that I could write, and when I say occurred, I mean that in every sense of the word. I was too busy and distracted growing up to my Teens to realise my very special relationship with words. It was only when I turned 13 that I realised what I could do with my pen, and with my words. My Grandfather died and with him was born this connection. It was like a lamp being plugged back into a socket, a realisation that had always been there, but never really came to the fore of my being or to my many thoughts. My English teacher, had given me an excercise to do. A written excercise, along with my other classmates, to go home and brainstorm an idea for an essay about our favourite person. My favourite person was my Grandfather, but so was my English teacher. I went with my Grandfather. I sat there on my bed, I put pen to paper, and the most wonderful thing happened. It was about an hour later when I put my pen down and there before me, looking up at me from my copy book, were my words. My eyes skimmed over my words, bumpy and broken, rushed and innocent, fearful and excited. After a bit of tidying up here and there I closed my copy book and never gave it one more thought, until the next morning at English class.
What happened in that class that morning, changed me. I never realised I could write. I never thought something so wonderful was inside such a scared little insecure child like me. Something that could stop a whole class from breathing, or blinking, or thinking about anything else for 5 minutes apart from my words. I read my composition to the class and as the last word left my lips I looked up to see a class full of people turned around in their chairs staring at me. My english teacher asked me to read what I had written again. I did. I looked up. The scene did not change, the expressions, the gaping mouths, the tears in my teachers eyes.
My words had flowed out of me onto the page and taken the form of a poem. I had thought I was going to be in trouble for not doing as the teacher asked, but instead, she took that copy book from me and I never saw it again. She proudly paraded it around the teachers canteen, giving it to anyone who cared to read what her student had written, capturing everyone in the same blank stare that stays with me to this day. And then she done the most wonderful thing. She entered me in a poetry competition.
It was then that I began my relationship with words. So I decided to start this blog. I have not written anything in a long time. And I’m miserable when I don’t write. I am sure you can sympathise. I don’t know anything about blogging. But I hope that my humble approach, and my love of just sitting here and talking about anything at all will refresh someone, somewhere. Words are wonderful things, they bring people close together. They have just brought you and I closer. And that, my friend, is enough to make anyone smile.