A couple of weeks ago I was going through the small bin that
I keep in the back of my crawlspace filled with mementos from my childhood. I
was sort of mulling over the few things that I had kept, the few memories that
I hold dear from that period in my life. A novelty flashlight from the circus,
a ceramic cat that my grandpa gave me before he died, some ribbons and awards
from various activities, and a large binder filled with the beginnings of my
writing career.
As I mentioned in the post “I hope the news doesn’t find out my shed burned down,” when I was nine I wrote a play that won a national award, but when it was over, it was over. Being nine years old, writing wasn't really something that was on my radar.
Somewhere around age 13 I started writing in what was the beginning of my "writing career." Things were
just so crazy in my house that I remember feeling like my head was going to explode
from a mixture of confusion, pain, and rage. I remember one night I was sitting
at my desk, hunched over, head resting on my folded arms, and I was sobbing. I was filled with so much hurt, so much pain, so much rage! At some
point my arm bumped into a little novelty desk set that I had and a notebook
fell out. Before I knew it I was filling
page after page with my thoughts. Hours later, when the notebook was filled, I
collapsed on my bed, fingers cramping with exhaustion, and I began to read what
I had written.
Something about turning those pages and seeing in print everything
that I had not been able to sort out on the inside, seemed to give the situation
some clarity. Feeling’s that normally felt just beyond my grasp of understanding,
suddenly made sense. They seemed….real. Not just some all encompassing fog that
crept around behind me, enveloping my soul and clouding my sight, but something
more tangible. Seeing them on paper made them real. It made them manageable. If
I could understand them, then I could begin to deal with them.
Still, it wasn’t easy though. The feelings, I was just
begging to grasp the concept that was them. The idea that I was allowed to
feel. The idea that just maybe, maybe it was alright to have feelings, feelings
that I didn’t understand, but feelings that were there no less.
I started writing poetry because it was an acceptably
abstract way to write without needing concrete thought, without needing to
explain and decipher the exact meaning behind my words. Poetry just flows. It comes from the place that
sits between my soul and reality.
So the other day, as I was going through my box of
childhood memories, I came across one of my first poetry journals. This blog has become my safe place, the place that I now come
to bare my soul, but what is in these journals are the writings of a 13 year old Eden bearing her soul.
Without further ado, I’d like you all to meet thirteen year
old Eden.
