I’m not known for an aversion to hyperbole, and the danger of such a proclivity is, of course, the potential disempowerment of my words. It’s not my tendency alone, but it is unquestionably mine, and maybe that takes the edge off of my current state of emotional upheaval. So be it. It’s been a psychologically turbulent few days. I am learning much about the world and about myself, which is rarely an easy process for me, and often a heinously uncomfortable one, and I’ve been leaning on books to keep my mind and spirit centered. One of those books is Jacqueline Woodson’s National Book Award-winning middle-grade memoir, BROWN GIRL DREAMING. I just finished reading it for the second time, and I suppose I’ve been deeply affected by events of the past three days, because while I was dazzled by it the first time through, this second reading has rocked me to my core. My life has been nothing like Jacqueline Woodson’s life, and I suspect I’m not much like her as a person, but it has truly been one of the most emotional reading experiences of my life. That may be yet another demonstration of hyperbolic excess, I don’t know. It feels true. I feel awash with optimism about my creative abilities, crushed by insecurity about the insignificance of myself as a human being, big as a tower to the heavens, small as a microbe in the soil…I feel so many things, in so many ways.
Sunday afternoon is one of my reserved periods of writing time. I believe I’ll write some poetry.