Notes From my Younger Self
But looking back, I realize that it was something more powerful than a promise from the future that got me through an abusive childhood, the loss of a baby, divorce, and the journey from aspiring writer to published author. It was faith fueled by the youngest part of myself. The part of me that believed it was magic that made Mexican jumping beans pop, and that if I got a pair of PF Flyers, I really could jump over buildings.
It was this youngest part of me who whisked me off on this writing venture, and believed without a doubt that we’d reach our destination, even though we’d be riding on nothing but a wing and a prayer. Fortunately for me, when I get so wrapped up in adult worries that I start confusing dire thoughts with “reality,” Life, in its infinite wisdom, points me back to her. And so it did, when I was laboring to finish my fourth book, How High The Moon.
I was a month behind deadline, 27,000 words beyond a sane word count, and still my child narrator--who by her own admission has a mind that wanders like a puppy without a leash--was going strong. After working 10-12 hours a day for weeks, the only thing dwindling faster than my resolve was my bank account. So in an effort to take a pause and a breath, I took my son for dinner at our favorite restaurant. When we arrived, I excused myself to go to the restroom.
I heard the little girls behind one of the two stalls, and guessed that the little one doing most of the talking was about three. She was in the middle of a story, but stopped when she heard me close the stall door. “Hey,” she said. “I think somebody’s in here. Is there somebody in here?”
“Yep,” I said, as I flinched, because even the simple act of hanging my purse on a hook, hurt my over-worked neck and shoulders.
“What’s your name?” she asked. I told her, and she replied with, “Oh. My name is Kea. And that’s Kendsey on the toilet.” I smiled as I unzipped and sat down.
“I can see you,” Kea said, her matter-of-fact delivery telling me she was oblivious to the fact that maybe that’s not something a stranger who is sitting on a toilet might want to hear.
I peered through the narrow gap alongside the stall door, but saw only bright wall tiles. “I can’t see you,” I told her.
“Down here,” she said. “Look under the wall.” And there she was, on hands and knees, staring up at me as I peed. Kea. With a head full of blond ringlets, Crayola Cornflower- Blue eyes, and pink cheeks.
“You have very pretty curls,” I told her as she blinked up at me.
“Yeah,” she said. “And I got a puffy shirt, too.”
Kea disappeared and Kendsey hissed. “Kea, don’t! You aren’t suppose to open the door when someone’s on the toilet!” (Obviously, the girls’ mother didn’t think to also tell them that you aren’t suppose to peek under bathroom stalls, a fact that had me giggling.)
“But I want to show the lady my puffy shirt!” Kea insisted.
Seconds later, while I was zipping my jeans, my stall door (latched with only a magnet) burst open, and there was Kea. She looked down at her pink shirt where a plastic-covered picture bubbled over her heart. “See my puffy shirt?” she said. “It lights up when you poke it. See? You wanna poke it?”
I was glad my bladder was empty, because by the time I got back to the table, I was laughing so hard I could hardly hold myself up. And I laughed until my eyes watered and my shoulders sighed.
Here in the adult world, where we are inundated with daily responsibilities, subjected to misfortunes, and chronically exposed to negativity, it can be easy to cave to feelings of anxiety and hopelessness. When I find myself in this place again (as I surely will), I’ll remember sweet Kea, so innocent and trusting, plagued by none of the <1>shoulds and have tos and you-can’t-do-that messages that often confine us adults to spaces tighter than a public restroom stall. Kea was my protagonist, and my youngest self made visible. An arrow that pointed me back to the part of me that writes for the sheer joy of telling a story and believes wholeheartedly that it will be good when I’m done. I smiled all the way home that day, and finished my book four days later.
Whatever your dream, I hope your youngest, most trusting self, will be your traveling companion.
How High the MoonSandra Kring
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Sandra...how fortunate I was to read your blog today. I am neck-deep in 'adult' problems, physical and mental. Reading this made me rush back in my memory to the little girl that was ME and still lives in hiding somewhere deep in my psyche. That little ME had more joy and courage and 'I don't care' attitude than the grown up me. You hit the nail on the head in relaying the delightful encounter with the little girl...it snapped you out of your slump and helped me know that nothing is so bad that I can't face it with the energy and devil-may-care attitude I once enjoyed as a child. You hit a nerve I'm sure for many readers who, like me, look out at this messed up world of war and dissention and problem after problem...and that nerve is just that...we have lost OUR 'nerve' to just bound ahead and tackle joyful new adventures, leaving worldly problems behind. For what really can we do to solve all the messes? We can really only make ourselves 'young at heart' once again, slap a smile on our faces, perhaps go buy a puffy shirt (ha) or whatever makes us happy and unburdened. Thank you, thank you, Sandra. You wrote the truth so beautifully and changed my heart today!
Suzy,
Unlike most writers, I didn’t grow up reading. I started at the age of seventeen. I was a messed up kid and a new wife. Sure that I was the only one confused and scared of life. My husband was in his first year of college and loved reading newspapers. We were broke, of course, so he had to get his fix at the library. Every day we went there and I’d sit, doing nothing but waiting for him to page through his stack. One day he said to me, “If you don’t find something to read, you’re going to really get bored.”
I’d always wanted books as a child—I just didn’t have them. And still at seventeen, books, like all the good things in life, were for those more deserving. But I got a library card and started in the fiction section, in the As. Reading opened a whole new world to me. And on those pages, I found a safe place where I could find myself, expand my mind, and open my heart.
It took me decades before I realized that I wanted to become a published author, but no time at all to know why. I wanted to give others the same kind of experiences that other writers had given me. That goal is still the driving force behind my writing. And every single time a reader tells me that something in what I’ve written meant something to them…touched them or changed the way they look at themselves, others, life in general… I feel blessed to be a writer. Glad to be given the opportunity to “pay it forward,” as they say.
I’m sorry to hear that life’s a challenge for you right now, Suzy. Being neck-deep in life’s challenges can leave us feeling so overwhelmed, isolated, and desperate to believe that things will get better. I hope though, that you are reconnecting with that energetic child you used to be. That fearless, determined little girl who faced life with that devil-may-care attitude. As you said, there is much to get us down in this adult world. All the hatred, the war, the suffering. You absorb too much of that when you’re going through personal problems especially, and your energy wans, and so does your hope. Yet for me, the answer is always to draw my focus in smaller. To observe what’s right around me, take in the sunsets, the laugher of children, the magic in the things that grow. But most of all, to connect with who I was as a child. Things may not have been great back then, but still I found every day to be an adventure, and believed that a miracle might be waiting around the next corner. I hope you’re connecting with that part of yourself now, too.
Again, thanks for the heart-felt note, Suzy. I don’t know how often I’ll be blogging here, or what I’ll be blogging about—we’ll see!—but I hope you’re return and invite your reader friends to do the same.
Sandra Kring
