Some Insight...

--------Originally written August 2015------------

There are moments -- glimmers of awareness -- when you suddenly realize that something is different. That "something" might be a momentous realization that disturbs the entire course of your life, or it might be a single moment that alters your perception. For me, this moment occurred over a seemingly ordinary glass of Riesling, the cool bay breeze lightly goosebumping our sleeveless arms, as a solo guitarist sang song after song with his eyes squeezed shut, his small, yet captive audience, completely in awe. This was one of those rare moments when everything collided and began to make perfect sense. Now that I have you hooked into thinking you are reading about an unexpected, yet miraculous, epiphany I may have experienced (which I will get to -- I promise), let me first discuss the events leading up to this discovery. This summer, after much self-doubt, questioning, and anxiety, I took part in the Capital District Writing Project Summer Institute. My confession: I embarked on this journey partially believing that I had very little to offer the group. I worried that I once and for all would be discovered as a fraud -- a hardworking teacher, who tries her best, but never quite hits the mark. I had no idea what to expect from this group of strangers, and I worried (in a nightmarish kind of way) that I would be laughed out of the room. Second Confession: In my eight-year teaching career, and thirty-two-year "living life" career, I am confident that this was the most eye-opening, enlightening, and meaningful experience that has come across my plate. My experience, unfortunately, cannot be thoroughly described without failing to do it full justice. What I will mention is that in only three weeks time, I was reminded that teaching is the best career I could have ever chosen. I was reassured, by a room full of intelligent, interesting, charismatic, honest professionals, that what happens in my classroom actually does measure up -- a doubt that has permeated my unsure mind since I began teaching. Most of all though, I was refreshed, and given permission to remember what it can be like for students when they sit down at a blank piece of paper (or blank computer screen) tentative about committing words to reality, and unsure about where to begin. I was allowed the opportunity to suffer through difficult writing pieces and topics, and express myself on pages upon pages of blank paper -- something I have (regretfully) forgotten to carve out time for over the last few years. Writing reemerged as a verb. An act. An action. I was given the gift of writing, and forced (albeit willingly) to write, and write, and write. And now, I'm grateful to say, I can't stop. That brings me to my moment of realization. I was sitting in my freshly vacuumed, lemon-scented Nissan Rogue, lounging back with a pillow and blanket, shoes off (completely allowing my six-year-old self to enjoy being just a passenger), as my "dressed to the nines even though it is 6:00 am and we are embarking on a 4.5 hour drive down the Garden State Parkway" mother cruise controlled it...at a rebellious 66 mph. We were almost to the destination, our 5th annual Wildwood Crest vacation, a yearly event sprinkled with Clams Casino, dirty martinis, and lots of undivided mommy attention. I was feeling the typical twinge of guilt as we approached the salty, ocean scented air. Guilt that my fiancé, Doug, is stuck at home, working outside in the sun while I'll be bathing in it. Guilt that my younger siblings aren't here with us. Guilt that my mother will, as she always does, sneak one too many dinner bills onto her credit card, with the false promise that I can pay "next time". Once I allowed that guilt to dissipate, though, I felt overwhelming gratitude. I have a mother whose company I not only enjoy, but also genuinely look forward to. I am fortunate enough to be granted precious moments and memories that I one day will long to remember. So, that leads me to the goosebumpy calm breeze, chilled Riesling, and acoustic guitar. There was a moment. Fleeting. Almost unrecognizable. Between her soft sways to the music, my mom glanced over at me and smiled, quietly thanking me for coming on vacation with her. In that moment, as she swirled her glass of wine and tapped to the beat of the song on the back of her chair, I realized that I do not want to forget these moments. Ever. In the past, I might have recognized this moment and let it, eventually and unsuspectingly, disappear from my already full memory bank. However, this time, I was compelled to write it all down. I was filled with an overwhelming NEED to record this moment. Not for the product that would be produced. Not for the grade I might receive. Not for its potentially publishable relevance. Not for a due date. Perhaps not even for anyone else's eyes -- ever. What I felt the need to do was record this moment so that I could live it more vividly, treasure it longer, and return to it anytime I needed a reminder of this. Just. This. Moment. I experienced this glimmer of awareness while breathing salty ocean air with my wonderful mother. This. This was the "something" that altered my perception, but it was all made possible because of the CDWP. Final Confession: I am grateful to the CDWP Summer Institute for awakening me. Prior to taking part in this experience, I might not have been as vividly aware of the little moments that deserve recording. I might have attempted to store this memory (as well as a lifetime of others) never truly remembering it in its pure honesty. I certainly would not have been compelled to write it down, rapidly typing quick reminders into my iPhone "notes" for reference later. Prior to being reminded what the act of writing actually is, it wouldn't have crossed my mind to record this moment, or any moments, just because. Just. Because. Just because they deserve to be written down, and just because I want to experience them again through the act of writing them. I am filled with gratitude for so many things, but especially for the realization that I can be a writer, just for myself, just because it's what I need to do. Just because I want to write.