another Marathon Wednesday down

Just finished another Wednesday. Up at 5 to prep class, taught class, worked out, graded papers, went to my screenwriting class, prepped a different class, taught class. It was a good day of honest work. I feel like I finally understand what that means.

Isn't it weird when a cliche becomes real; when you've heard something for years, it means nothing, and then one day you're living it?

I just had my class watch Born Into Brothels. Whew. So much to work with about narrative, journalism, art, culture, survival sex workers, stolen childhood, beauty, color. . . . I think I've been on overload about it since I first saw it in Ann Arbor last spring. Now it's all resurfaced again. Ever feel like you know you're going to be pulled in a new direction? That the pull has been a dull presence forever, but it's about to get electric?

Well, that's where I'm at. Except super tired at the same time.

I've got a box (maybe more than one) of photos from my childhood sitting in my basement. I think I'm going to have to go there. I've learned that when I fear it, when it feels scary, when it looks dark from inside my head, I probably need to dive in. That's where I need to go.

It's also where my book needs to go. I thought writing about cancer was hard. But writing about cancer is nothing compared to making sense of a chaotic childhood. Reclaiming a place, a spirit, a life lived--now gone.

The weight of remembering truthfully feels bigger than I am.

But it's not.

I'll let you know what I find when I find it.