I've never been a good speller. This blog is riddled with typos. My honors thesis in college was excellent but had a gazillion typos. Same with poetry from high school and likely essays in middle school. My written French was actually pretty good. I'm not sure why. I'm not sure why I've always had such bad spelling. Poupee, my Peace Corps site partner who was like a sister I never had - both good and bad - was perplexed by this. I was smart, quick, witty, but a horrible speller. She concluded after two years together it was because I don't slow down. I will often ask Lara to help me spell a word while I'm trying to spell it out. And 9 of 10 times I get it on my own if I just slow down. I move through life so quickly, trying to cram so much into each moment, millisecond, that I don't take the time to read what I've written. Correct my mistakes. Spell correctly.
But I care about words. I do! I don't want them to be spelled incorrectly. I don't want to appear ignorant. And I've leaned, like running and playing rollerderby, you need to practice writing and exercise those muscles to keep them in shape. You need to read to learn new words, to be articulate, to see new combinations. Words.
I became a playwright because I didn't care about certain details. I didn't care what color chair Melanie sat in or what she was wearing. I cared about what she was saying and who she was saying it to - what she wanted out of the exchange. I cared mostly about dialogue or lack of dialogue. I wanted to capture that collective sigh or gasp when something is revealed to an audience. I care a lot about words and images and people.
One of my goals this year is to slow down and try to respect words a little bit more and spell them correctly. And read more. And write too. I'm trying to have a better relationship with words. We'll see how it goes.
I am not one to post my "gratitude" online or in a blog. I am often very grateful and feel very fortunate for what I have and the life I'm living. Every birthday, I am grateful to have made it to that age. I survived mental illness that usually plague young 20 year olds. Hell, I survived childhood and all of the crazy things we did like rafting in flooded streams. I haven't gotten cancer (yet) and I'm not taking a single prescription drug. Not one. I have roof over my head. I have enough food in my fridge and I feel loved. It's not perfect and there is definitely room for improvement but it's a fantastic place to be. And I know how fortunate I am.
Last night while cooking, after having put away all of our groceries from Sunday shopping, I realized I've become the dirty hippie I've always wanted to be. A bright modern kitchen, with matching appliances, organized spices and clearly labeled, packaged things never appeal to me. I have a bright kitchen but my spices are bought in bulk, refilling glasses containers, sometimes with their name on them and sometime indicated by a rubber band or just a hunch. We gave many have different oils and vinegars - and even our own homemade apple cider vinegar. Some very well known products like Hersey's coco powder and Morton's salt take up real estate as do obscure baggies tied closed with twist ties with illegible numbers or words scratched on them. There is organic, ground peanut butter, local and exotic honeys, generic store brand cooking spray, shade grown coffee next to end of season sale Starbucks. A pestle and mortar that is begging to be used.
The tiny bit of chaos that creates and flavors all of the homemade (following a recipe) meals in this house make me so happy. It's the person I wanted to be growing up. A little bit salt of the earth. Very environmentally aware, deliberate and conscious. And I love it.
