I have an abundance of BIG giant loves in my life. My to-do list often pushes the limit of realistic possibilities. Pregnant, while all my friends rocked their little pluto-sized bellies, I orbited as a Jupiter. My tears arrive without warning and almost always in the form of how-does-a-person-produce-that-much-snot, ugly kind of cry. Somehow, Gomer Pyle, inadvertently manages to take over my laugh. My music is felt best at full soul-screaming volume wearing some loud and clickety shoes- twirly skirt preferred. There's a colorful gale of life force that ebbs and flows in my daily space. I dig it.
And yet, while I love the loud sweeping presence of living, there is something increasingly more beloved in the quiet wistfulness that effortlessly creeps in to the corners of life. Almost so soft, that it goes unnoticed. You see, that's the way quiet likes it to be. Introspectively, in my youth, writing was my space of solitude. I approached life with the sluggish hand of impetuous mind. I was hungry for living and yet it was whispered in ferocious scripts for only my eyes to relish in. A sacred space of safe where I could work out the balance of a growing spirit and a demanding world. Writing was my way of really feeling something. Journals, spirals, you name it. I couldn't get enough of it. What started an open page protected behind the lock/key of my teddy bear journal welcoming the really important thoughts of my youth, like about 18 straight pages of Julie loves Miles H. in chicken scratch cursive, has grown in to so much more. I love that. My lifetime of thoughts, scrawled out in a small beat up spiral, or journal or parchment paper... to be shoved into grade school book bags, dragged through college coffee shops and read alone over wine in a houseful of sleeping family.
And for all the ways of loudly feeling this world, the introspective rush of writing still seems to capture my heart the most.
Writing just might be my giant, heart-throbbing crush.
yet with a presence so much softer... a crunch.
It is the 'most-best' way to feel something.
Just ask a Molly.
I think it might be time to buy a teddy-bear journal.