"If you can pick up a pencil and write your name . . . you can write."

These are wise words from my grandmother, 'Mary'. She's right, as usual. She's 92. At this stage in her life, she's got almost infallable perspective, an excessiely keen sense of self, more determination than she could ever possibly act upon as a single individual and a dry, realistic wit. So without further distraction, avoidance or a self-inflicted cop-out . . . here I go.

I think I've had this blog set up for at least six months now and have never written a single post. Not that I haven't thought to or wanted to write. And certainly not due to any lack of persuasion or support from family members. I simply wasn't sure what to write about. What could I possibly say that was even minutely interesting to anyone else?


Sometimes I find that I need the inspiration of complete and utter boredom to propel myself to act. Rage works too in small quantities. Larger amounts tend to incinerate good ideas in the accelerant of adrenaline and leave you with only ashes for thoughts and your fingers burned. That's how art has always been for me. When there was absolutely nothing else to do - I dove into art.  I must have been bored a lot as a kid. Or maybe I simply needed to have control of something - anything.


Whether it was writing as I grew older; drawing when I was too young an immature to wait for words to come capable of analyzing actions and transform them into meaning and connections; baking - when my mind is so busy that I can't think. If I don't keep my hands busy with something - God knows what might happen. (There was actually a much more immediate and fundamental need to bake which I may go into in a later post. For now, let's just say - the need was imperative on many levels) or really any expressive activity. Art - I can do. I understand it in all it's forms. I get it. Meaning, intent, suggestion, it's all there. I can practically feel it most days.


I wrote a book when I was six years old. I was in first grade. I still have it. I won a prize  - 1st Place. The school I went to had a book fair every year. Every student had to write a book at whatever level his or her ability was. What a great idea! I hated it every year. I dreaded it.
We had to write the story, type it (most times the teacher did this for us as we dictated our words), sew the pages together, make the cover bringing cloth scraps from home to cover the shirt board, and then illustrate it. I swear, I only wrote the story so I could draw the pictures. But it was a good book actually. 


I've heard that writers should write about what they know. At age six, I took this to heart. My story was about a little bear who got lost in the woods very near her home. Funny, as I write here I realize that I've always assumed everyone understood innately that the main character was a girl bear. But I don't think I ever said so for sure in the story - I mean in explicit terms.  
The bear gets lost and proceeds to discover every member of her immediate family one at a time in the woods around her. . . . "And then they get lost." The shocking part about this little story is that - in the book - the other members of her family don't even realize they're lost until the smallest one points it out to them. There's no, "Oh my gosh! We're lost!" It's all very matter of fact.
And only when the bear finally finds her neighbor is she - and the rest of her family members which she has gathered and escorted beside her through the woods - able to find her way home.
It was all SO SIMPLE and very easy too. The neighbor knew exactly where he was going and where he was to begin with - which was apparently not important to the little bear's family, but was to her. Could life really be this simple? so straightforward? so  . . . normal?


Ignorance is truly bliss - for some people. For others, it's stressful and requires immediate acknowledgement and finally resolution. Why? do you suppose?