A Seed for Living Twice

This will not be the normal "oh-no-I-haven't-written-in-two-years" kind of blog post.  Not because I can't manage to catch up on all the happenings and intricate inter-weavings of the past twenty-four months. Not because of a sense of burdensome guilt about my lack of communication with the world at large.  After 8.5 hours of pondering on the matter, I'm now beyond all those emotions. What's left is the very core of it all--the very center where the seeds are and from which new life can sprout.

It all began this morning when one of my students mentioned something about stickers.  Now you should know that just a week or so ago, this particular student had found some stickers in the trash, pulled them out, and proceeded to stick them about the classroom--on the clock, on the turtle tank, on a classmate or two, and then, of course, on her own desk.  Why?  That is a question that still begs for answering.  But in the meantime, it has all become a fabulous joke.  So when she mentioned something about stickers, I couldn't help giggling with her.

And then I remembered this post from my past and couldn't resist the temptation of sharing it with her or her word-loving brother.  We all laughed.  But when they went back to their desks to eat their lunches, I remained riveted--perusing one year after another of memories, of words, of musings. A thought began to come, one which, at first, I could not pin down and talk some sense into.  When I tried to explain my ruminations to my coworker over recess, I still had not figured it out.  It was on my twenty-three minute drive home from work--after the goodbyes, after the grading, after the mental wind-down--that the thought finally emerged from the rainy fog figuratively and literally surrounding my car.

In those years and months and days of being a faithful blogger, and more importantly, being a writer, I was living each moment twice--the first, as the protagonist, and the second as the analytical bystander, sometimes cheering myself on, sometimes calling out criticisms, sometimes laughing at the ridiculous character I saw before me.  My life was a reflective one--chewed on constantly by my imaginings, mulled over obsessively in my quiet moments, and digested through the act of wordsmithing.  My life was, in those years, an examined life, "one," to turn Socrate's famous quote around, "worth living."  Not because it was seen by everyone.  Not because it was plastered all over Facebook (which I didn't even have).  But because every moment was lived until it couldn't be lived anymore.

That, indeed, is a life worth living, a seed worth sowing.  And April is as good a time as any to begin anew.