You are Your Mother's Child

I have wanted to write so much in the past few months and then every time I sit down and try and write, I come up blank.  I've been telling myself that maybe I'm just busy- because I am much too busy- but at what point does life cease to be busy.  It is simple- life is always busy until you die, so that no longer constitutes as a good excuse for me to just not write.  I thought it was because I now hated writing, but I could never hate writing.  That is something I just couldn't do.

My mom asked me the other when I knew I wanted to be a writer, and I told her sixth grade.  But it was actually in fifth grade, when we wrote these imitation poems about "Words that made Our Stomachs.."  I chose the title; Words That Make My Stomach Drop.  Everyone really liked my poem, but I didn't really care.  I liked writing that poem, and I liked reading greek tragedies over and over and I liked Emily Dickinson and Roald Dahl and Lemony Snicket and J.K. Rowling and C.S. Lewis and Maurice Sendak and Madeleine L'Engle and I liked writing essays and creating bumper stickers that had clever sayings about Presidents and crickets.  I liked writing my name and I liked writing letters to my friends when I was at camp.  In short- I was a weird kid.  When I had friends over, and I had decided the playdate was over, I would simply go to my room and read.  I wouldn't tell the friend or my parents that I was done playing- instead I holed up with my books and pissed a lot of people off.

I have always been pretty sure that I want to write.  I'm good at it, and I like it more than anything else.  It seemed like simple math.  But I just haven't been able to write anything of substance in the past few months- I've had writers block.  I don't get it and my only explanation is that life has just had so many ups and downs lately.  Biggest down?  I really, really miss my brother and I fear that I am not going to get into the college of my dreams which will make me an even better writer and fulfill my dreams.  Biggest up?  I can now sleep on my own, with no aid, for at least a few nights.  And I'm skiing okay, and I did fine on my SATs.  And I am learning to appreciate myself.

I started this blog at a time in my life when I thought I had things sort of figured out.  I was very wrong- and life was really hard for a few years back there.  I don't think people realize how bad life was during 2013, and how I made all these terrible decisions because I was in such a bad place.  My early posts, and a lot of my posts last year, were from an anxious and depressed teenaged girl who was uncomfortable with herself and everything around her.  They were from a chronic insomniac       (still working on that) who had frequent panic attacks (they are not as frequent) who bit her nails incessantly (still working on that).  They were from an unhappy person and that is why I found it so easy to write so much- I had so much to say and I felt like no one was listening in my life.

But this weird- in between stage I'm in doesn't really make the creative juices flow because there isn't enough to be unhappy about, but there isn't enough to rejoice about.  So I'm working on that.  That's all for now.  Sorry for the rambling and 'doesn't really come to a conclusion' type post.  It's the season of forgiveness here, people.

"Life's a roller coaster, keep your arms inside
Fear that's a big emotion,
But you are your mother's child."

"Our love's a protective poison,
But you are your mothers child."

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

So I haven't had any time to really write anything in about a month because of a culmination of things and rather than leave it this way for a couple more weeks, I decided to give you one of my favorite poems.  It is my favorite, because it means a lot to me, and it means a lot to me because of one principle my father has instilled in me.  

This principle: my ancestors on his side of the family are largely jewish, and all but one of them were killed in the holocaust.  Not exactly something you think someone would be ashamed of, but my dad is.  His reason?  Not a single one of his ancestors fought back when they had to wear the yellow stars, when they were put into the ghetto's, when they were carted away on trains and taken to their deaths.  Only the Warsaw jews uprose at the very, very end of the holocaust and I think more than anything, my dad wishes his ancestors had not stayed silent.  Death is a common thread among everyone, but to just let yourself die by the hands of another much before your time is a concept which really saddens him.  It saddens me too. So here's the poem:

Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night
Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.