who we are – the niceness of not knowing

So the question for last Sunday was –  just how much creative trouble are you in when you find yourself in Officeworks at 9 am, thinking that you could write the next scene in your novel if only you had an electronic label maker?

 

Quite a bit.

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But then I met a group of students at St Margaret’s in Berwick.

There was a student who likes to practice growing (some stretching involved, some thinking)

A student who likes to watch snails in the darkness

Another who loves the exact moment when ocean waves hit her

Another who loves watching crabs come out of their shells

Another who loves watching baby turtles try to make it to the sea

Another who gets afraid for all turtles when they get stuck on their backs

 *

We talked about ghosts, shell collecting, what it’s like to want things we don’t have, want brothers, want twins, want to be a sumo wrestler when you’re just too skinny, want to be invisible so you could freak people out driving cars, want to be invisible just so you could live without being seen, want to travel to real and imaginary places, want to sort out the jumble of disconnecting lines under your skin.

*

They reminded me that even if we could make a list of every single thing that we love, every single strange quirk that goes on under our skin, every single memory we have, we still, most days, wouldn’t be exactly sure who we are.

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And for some reason, that makes me want to start writing again.