Day 2 - On Imprinting via Writing

Although curling up with a good book and delving into the written words of others, be it on my sofa or in a hammock beside a beautiful sea, is one of my ideas of heaven, I would have never have said I was prone to writing. As I sit here now reflecting on how writing has been present in my life, I am surprised to discover that writing has figured so prominently into my life, yet remained a hidden medium of expression.
As a child in primary school I loved concocting brilliant adventures and mysterious capers on long pieces of full scrap paper, often going over the maximum of pages or words. My imagination was very active and I found great satisfaction in channeling some of my day dreams on to paper, be it as an assignment for school, or to add to my writing folder for my grown up career in something. In high school I took all the English courses available: Literature to learn how to dissect and enjoy great literary works, and maybe try my hand at creating my own masterpiece. In summer school I took writer’s craft, a six-week full day course on the art of writing. It was one of my favorite high school classes to date – I wrote many short stories and a few longer stories, and gave a presentation on fairy tales and their importance as a cultural link to early and modern literature.
I had an on again off again relationship with journalling. During the rocky road of adolescence I would begin a new journal with vivour and a promise to write every thing, every day. Quickly my declaration of faith would wan, and soon I was lucky if I wrote every week. As I grew into my ever changing body, I realized journalling shouldn't be a chore, but rather an escape, a means of expression. Checking in with myself from time to time.
When I traveled across India and South East Asia I would periodically write my adventures, impressions and experiences into journals whose covers were made of saris and batik, or featured pictures of a royal family, animals and canonized local leaders. I love to look through these journals as often I have forgotten the events and experiences depicted, and seeing the cover fabric and/or image makes me happy, like seeing an old friend. Sometimes the sent of the paper takes me back to a particular country, small village, a moment in time. The act of writing, of putting pen to paper is so cathartic and is so indicative sometimes of my mood at the time of writing. Hurried spidery scribbles describing an incredible experience, dark angry words screaming of a wronging or slight against my person, the world or society in general. Sometimes the writing would appear blotchy and rambling across the page, making me feel empathy for the side of me that had written these sad words sometime ago. At a cross road in my life while traveling I rented a room at a guest house by the river in Bangkok and sat in my room day after day, writing everything that had just happened to me in a sari bound journal. I would take breaks, wander the back streets, eating from stalls, practicing my fledgling Thai with fruit shake vendors, smiling grandmothers and shop vendors. My journal was my lifeline to understanding events that have unfolded at a pace with which I could barely keep up.
Writing in a journal for me is like an imprint of self in time, a chronicling of my existence in this big, scary world we all call home. What used to blow my mind was the thought that somewhere in the world are other journals that hold the same stories as mine, describing the same moment and same place in time but from entirely different perspectives. I wondered if all those personal records of a moment in time were put together would somehow we all manage to describe exactly and completely what occurred, despite any bias or barriers that existed at the time. That despite any difference in personality, language, reasoning we all exist together in little suspended moments in time, our experiences and interpretations of said experiences spiraling out wards like a stone falling into a pond, causing and holding up the all the events and happenings that happened up until now. Perhaps we are all connected by these personal imprints. Ultimately these catalogues, these words on paper, this imprint of self onto a tangible medium, is the glue that holds us together. The same could be said for art, for clothing, for literature, for manufacturing, be it primitive flints and arrowheads, or the finger that pushes the switch on a large machine, or types a code onto a screen on a computer. That this initial mark, action of intent made on a cave wall, a papyrus or a piece of paper paved the way for our existence as we know it, the way for everything to come. That we, the environment, human race, the existence of being, Earth are simple footprints in bedrock waiting to be discovered?
No matter what the experience, my mind, perhaps when it needs to purge, chooses to write, to imprint my experiences in life on paper. Recently I discovered blogging and am now typing my stories in a blog format. Although I miss the almost artful expression of sliding and looping a pen across paper, I appreciate the speed at which I am starting to type. My ideas, thoughts etc., seems to take flight as I type them out.
During my time in hospital this past fall, my unit manager asked me if I was journalling. I replied I wasn't, that I didn't know what to say. You have to journal, she replied. Write it all down, it will make sense when it needs to. Professionally and personally you owe it to yourself to sort through everything that has happened. Two days later a colleague from work stopped by to visit. As I looked up at her from my wheelchair, she pulled out a gift bag. It was from my manager and inside was a beautiful red journal. Two days later, still not knowing what to write I started writing what I was feeling at that moment in time. Pages later, I looked up, noted the time and went to bed. I slept better than I had in ages. Over the next few weeks my mind and heart spewed pages of experiences, feelings, wishes, wrong doings, fear, despair and resolve. I catalogued my hospital experience like I did in Bangkok, like it meant something or will mean something at some time. When I was discharged I wrote ever so often but eventually my pen grew quiet.
For this challenge I am hoping to find my voice as a writer. Although I am not sure what I want to say, I know that I want to. The compulsion to write is back, like an old friend.