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Before you can read, your discoveries revolve around bright colours, noises, touch, taste, and love. And then you get language. Language that helps you express your needs and wants. Beautiful language that allows you to understand the stories that your parents read to you before tucking you up for the night. Then you start to gain more control of language and, if you’re lucky, you learn to read. When you start to read you get to add the element of wonder about those other places and people that, for now, only exist on the pages. Even when I was small I remember wanting to meet people from other cultures and go to places that I read about in books.
Before I began my life of wandering, it was language that helped me to find out what I liked and didn’t like about school. It was language that allowed me to learn about myself through journalling and reading Anne Frank’s Diary and Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. The stories of others informed my own.
It was also language that helped me through my teenage years. Song lyrics, important scribblings on covers of notebooks about who liked whom that week, and notes to pass in class (probably also about who liked whom). These writings were crucial to me in those days. Words of dire importance that made or broke friendships.
My favourite use of spoken language in those days was to make carefully scripted yet inevitably naff videos with friends on the giant VHS recorders of the day and to talk in “outrageous French accents” as dictated by Monty Python. These silly little linguistic episodes tied some of us together for life and much of the language re-emerges whenever we converse.
Who knew then that our interest in manipulating language for a laugh would be the thing that indicated our alike-ness? Language won over career choice, political or religious views, or any of the other things people think are important. It’s a pattern that has repeated itself over the years whenever I’ve met new people. I seem to warm instantly to people that enjoy a similar interest in manoeuvring language for effect and those are the friendships that have lasted.
I’m blessed to have been born into a situation that allowed me to take action on my dreams to explore. My love of language, my own and that of others, has been the foundation and that which has allowed me to connect.
I’m struggling with the need for money versus the need to feed my creative soul. I don’t think I’m special. Everyone who creates in some way knows this dichotomy. Although I’m a wee bit spooked by swinging on the trapeze without a safety harness I’m about to leave the edge and do it. I’ve got three more weeks on the teaching contract I’ve taken on and then it’s sink or swim. The teaching safety net is there, but it’s a long way down and to be honest I’m hanging on tightly to the bar. I want to be up here. I love swinging through the air and kicking out this story and that. I love the idea of letting my stories support my life. I love the idea of doing something on my own terms without a ringmaster.
But there are people, creative ones, who’ve been teaching me how to hold on. I’m not sure if they even know who they are or what lessons they have taught me. Some of them are bloggers or colleagues or writers or photographers who I’ve been in touch with for a long time. Some of them are family or friends. Some of them are people I’ve met recently and have maybe even only had the briefest of interactions with. Many of them I have never met in person.
Is it in our nature to look for ourselves in others? When I find someone who holds the same things dear that I do and they are doing what I want to do, I’m inspired. I’m lifted.
She is doing this thing?
Then I can do this thing!
Lately there have been many of these people. I don’t know where they are coming from or how they are finding me (or am I finding them?) but I’m extremely grateful. I’ll thank each of these people in the little ways that I can, but until I can get round to all of my amazing teachers, thank you. Thank you for your the trapeze lessons that you don’t even know you’ve taught.
What follows is a story of seredipity. Two things I really miss from Japan are mioga and shiso. Actually there are more things, but for simplicity let’s just stick with these for now. And…actually, I think I need to give up on finding mioga so…OK, here’s the story.
I’ve been looking for shiso since we got back and really don’t understand why we don’t have it here since it would easily grow in our climate. I even went on an internet hunt for suppliers of rare seeds to see if I could grow my own. Happily, I did find a supplier, but before I could place an order I realised that I’m not doing very well at keeping the herbs I’ve got happy. Rather than buy more expensive seeds and probably not get round to propogating them in my current busy state, I sort of gave up for the time being.
I did, however put in a lovely courgette plant that a friend gave me only to find that the slugs enjoyed the entire plant before it could produce anything. Hurumph! I also planted some radishes, which I figured were low maintenance. Even though the slugs chomped holes in the leaves, most of the radishes were OK save the fact that we had a bit too much to-ing and fro-ing of spring weather and so they kind of bolted and got all woody. Whatever! I was determined and planted another row. Bear in mind that all of this is in an expansive plot of about 40cm by 80cm.
This time I dumped some coffee grounds on the soil which not only kept the slugs at bay (unless they were just too full to eat anymore, that is!), but cleared the way for a couple of random herb-y looking plants to pop up.
I stupidly pulled the first one up thinking it was a weed but then realised that the leaves looked a bit like a mint or lemonbalm. So I just let the other two be and didn’t get back to check on the “garden” for a week or two. But when I did I thought the shape of the leaves looked a bit familiar. Could it be? No way…could it? I pinched one of the leaves and it smelled most definitely of shiso!
How can it be that the very thing I wanted manifested itself in my own garden despite being a rarity in these parts? I’m convinced that we often try so hard, that we don’t just let the magic happen.
I’m trying hard to take this attitude to my teaching. I’ve just finished my first week of 5 and I’m completely and utterly knackered! Am I trying too hard? Am I forgetting to be in the moment? I’m going to excuse myself because the first week in any job is always about organising and settling in. But now that I’m planned up for most of the coming week, I’m going to try to take a step back and just enjoy being with the students and see what happens.
I’m also thinking that there’s a lesson here for my writing. For the past few months I’ve been intensively researching the who, what, why, where and how of writing for a living. At first, I thought of this teaching gig as one of distraction from what I’m trying to do albeit a necessary one in a monetary sense. But now I’m thinking that I’m supposed to be doing this so I can distance myself from all the research, remember another facet of my identity, and just meet people. There are living, breathing people out there! There are people who hold valuable information and connections out there! People who pop up like surprise shiso plants!
There are also ideas and inspiration out there. Things I can write about. Places, people, things, Japanese herbs! Why is it so easy to feel you are in a creative space when, really you are in a rut? All the amazing books I’ve been reading and all the cool people I’ve been talking to on the internet, and even rented DVDs are inspirational. But sometimes you need to change your vantage point for just a second in order to see things more clearly and to let the surprises pop up.
Itchin’. My fingers are itchin’ to write sommit. But they can’t do it without my brain. Where’s my brain? Where’s my head? C’MON BRAIN! Tell my fingers what to do. C’mon eyes! Give my brain sommit to think about so it can tell my fingers what to do. What do I have to do to get through to you lot? We want to write sommit here. We’re feeling creative. Channel. Channel. Maybe they are all feeling unloved. Forgotten. Taken for granted. OK, loving kindness meditation sending out some vibes. I love you eyes. I love you brain. I love you fingers. Anything? Look out the window, eyes. Maybe the muse is walking by. Typing. Typing. Typing…nothing. Doodle in your Molskine. What does it look like? Does it look like sommit to write about? Damn! Big breath. OK, now you’re ready to write. Readyyyyyyyyyyy GO! Damn!
That’s it! I’ve decided. I’m a reasonably intelligent woman, who thinks she can write reasonably well, and who doesn’t want to work for other people any more. This was some of the thinking that prompted me to launch my food blog in order to get something out there. So, I thought I’d give myself until the end of the year to research the possibilities of freelance writing. I mean, the actual writing is one thing, but I’m the first to admit that I know nada about the industry.
The universe tends to provide, methinks, as all of a sudden I’ve met two writers in the past week. It seems I need to start building up a portfolio of work and commercial writing seems to be a way to do it. I was thinking that could be my bread and butter and anything else I do would be a bonus at the beginning. Do I know what I am talking about? Hell no!
I’m not sure how you get to know just what types of opportunities and avenues there are out there, but I’ve started reading everything I can get my hands on. Still hoping for that 26 hour clock to set in. I’ve always worked with words, but I guess I’d have had a better feel for the market if I’d studied journalism or some such at uni…well, too late. But I’m thinking that my knowledge of travel, food and education can be channeled somewhere.
Yes, this post is me thinking out loud…and maybe a cry for help…and full of bad writing (This won’t be in the aforementioned portfolio!), but I’m determined. OK universe. Bring it!
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