Every once in awhile I’ll go through the room I still have at my dad’s house, the house I grew up in. It has bright pink walls, a faux fur comforter, Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn on the wall, and dark wood furniture.
It embodies so much of who I was in high school. Loud, sultry, and confident.
Tucked away in desk drawers and behind the closet doors are little pieces of my past, bits of memories from my youth.
Many of these memories are words.
Notes folded into funny shapes and passed during class, journal entries filled with my heart aches and poetry scribbled on random pieces of paper.
I always loved to write.
Oddly as a child I thought I wanted to go into more of a science field. Medical or geology. I always loved words more than numbers, but maybe I didn’t even think they could be a career.
As I read the things I wrote now, as an adult, I’m so surprised by them. I was so connected and centered as a little kid.
I wrote poetry, for fun, because it felt good. I remember loving it. Several of the poems that are placed in this little box in a bigger box in a drawer I can actually remember writing. That feeling of inspiration feels so clear. I was in this moment and then I was searching for a pen and paper because I had to get this out. I must write.
I miss that part of me. It makes me wonder where that went?
The poems seem to end around high school when I began writing essays and secret notes. My creativity dwindled slowly until I got to the point of now not even remembering I was a creative person. Me? No. Not creative. Essays or reports, I’ve got those down. Creative writing seems like a thing of my past.
It feels like I’m having to learn how to write again, to re-find my voice, remember the joy that comes with it, drop the fear of judgement and get in touch with this part of me that I was born with but has been lost.
Back then I was writing for me. Because I felt like it. As a kid there’s no pressure around it.
I wrote what felt good, not what I thought would be perceived as good.
Reading what I wrote so long ago is like bringing me back to myself. It’s shocking how much and yet how little I have changed.
My ideas about the world are exactly the same as they’ve always been.
Nature has forever been something I felt close to and I’ve always been a peace lover. I mean, ‘why can’t we all just get along?’ has been running through my head since I knew how to even think that thought.
In my teen and university years my journals lament about not knowing what I’m meant to do, feeling confused about my direction and not feeling like I fit anywhere.
The handwriting changes but the feelings and thoughts haven’t.
Little girl Tera inspires the hell out of present day Tera.
I long for the days of poetry and dancing in the streets before I cared or even noticed that other people had opinions about me.
It was so easy to follow my bliss as a child. I’m not sure where I lost sight of it, but I think I’m a step closer to finding it.
Who were you as a child? What did you enjoy? Taking a look back, before all the regulations and rules of the world took us over, can give us a glimpse of our truest selves.
What would our childhood selves tell us now? Loosen up? Have fun? Take naps? Draw more? Dance?....