For the Love of Words
I should’ve known I’d become a writer someday.
Thank for joining me here on Coffee & Contemplation. Today’s post is a reflection on my journey with my love for words and the power of presence in everyday life. I hope you enjoy it!
I. Youth.
I was what you would have called a “smart” kid.
Reading and writing came relatively easy to me, from what I can remember. I was fortunate. Even before starting elementary school I had a notepad in which I would write short poems or dreams that my little mind could think of. It was made of recycled paper, and like most kid-themed things, boasted a bright sun and rainbow on the cover. I remember that notepad fondly.
Now that I look back, I know that my time writing in that pad was one of the first times I knew what presence felt like. Writing in that notepad helped me in my first attempts at meeting myself and my feelings, and making sense of the big world around me. Now that I look back on that time in hindsight, I realize how healing those moments of expression were for me.
I still try to reconstruct images of that notepad in my mind in the hopes I’ll someday meet it again.
II. Later.
Years later, I was given one of the best gifts I’ve ever received.
Like a fair amount of my peers, I was gifted a set of Encyclopedia Brittanica one year. Unfortunately, these beautiful leather-bound books are longer in print as Brittanica has long gone the way of digital catalog. I only wish my family had the foresight of preserving the whole set, but I’m sure they’ve been long lost in the moves throughout the decades. Maybe one day, when I have a proper home study to store them in, I’ll splurge on a vintage set of volumes simply for the simple purpose of nostalgia.
Back then, instead of running outside (which I did do at times, don’t get me wrong) I was more interested in what stories those leather-bound books could share with me. I learned about the variety of the animals in the world and devoted more than enough time to learning more about Leif Erikson who I thought had the coolest name I’d ever read (controversy notwithstanding).
All those words and stories helped to further develop my little brain. I sometimes wonder how much of the random trivia knowledge I still know was informed by those earlier years, and how much has been fed by my insatiable curiosity since.
III. Present.
I’m working on my next book and have found a writing space that’s quiet and comfortable. Most importantly, it’s not my home. As I work from home all week, it’s nice, and necessary, to get out and move to a new space. I can commute, see folks outside of my neighborhood, and be reminded of the other storied parts of New York City.
Recently I was in this new space, alone and drafting, and on the table I spotted a stack of three books: the Concise Oxford English Dictionary, Garner’s Modern American Usage, and Roget’s International Thesaurus. As I picked up Oxford to look for a definition of a world I already knew, I was immediately transported back to that little boy who use to flip through the pages of those encyclopedias and spend hours looking up random words in the dictionary and thesaurus. The crinkling of the plastic book jacket and burden of holding its weight in my hands was equal parts unnerving and familiar. I had forgotten how delicate and frail the pages of a dictionary can be. They’re thin and fragile, like little pieces of tissue that could tear at the slightest sense of tension or twist. Sitting there in that room, with that book in my hands, I experienced a profound moment of presence. It was a memory, reissued, that also felt soothing, like a homecoming.
When these kind of moments happen in daily life I do my best to pause and make space for them. I see these moments of nostalgia as not only nice, but moments of conversation with a past version of myself. This moment was also a reminder of who I may always be; I am someone who loves the little things and is moved by the power of language and expression.
Now here I am with you, remembering my love of words and feeling grateful for this spontaneous moment of presence.
Life has its beauty in these little pockets of presence.
Thank you for being a witness.
I hope you have similar moments of presence too.
