The Journey is Just as Important as the Destination
Space. The infinite, incalculably expansive three-dimensional realm in which all objects are located and all events occur. Not the void that exists between celestial bodies, but the space in which I occupy and identify as sacred. Not to be confused with “personal space”, my sacred space connects me with higher energy, and continually, wildly shapes my life and self. Practice. The intended repetition of movements over time so as to improve a skill, activity, or performance. Space and practice, two words with lighter definitions than meanings, go hand in hand. Think, firefighter and Dalmatian, think Batman and Robin. Cultivating here some behind-the-scenes groundwork, understanding the importance of space and practice, I am prompting you, just a little, to take you further.
While I work hard at everything, I have two specific practices close to my heart that regularly plays roles in the lifestyle I live. The physical practices of each are worlds different, but the discipline, character building, and release of tension I gain as I partake in them, relatively the same. Through the foundations of my space and practice, the art of writing and the application of yoga, melts the outside world, drawing attention within.
My stainless steal teapot shrieks upon boiling point as I rush out into the kitchen to retrieve my warming herbal tea. Sipping ever so gently, my body thanks me for the warmth as I cup my hands around the piping teacup and allow the warm steam to kiss my face. Setting my delicate Vincent Van Gogh painted china off too the side, giving it time to steep, my hands find the floor and my legs fly towards the ceiling. As I practice creating length through my spine, my eyes close, feet tapping the wall for support, mind quiet. When the earthy scent of green tea hits me, I gracefully return to upright position, snatch my tea on my way to my bedroom, close the massive cinderblock of a dorm room door, and enter into my space.
Yoga mats rolled up and off to the side, sun shining though my fifth floor window, treetops swaying to the rhythm of the wind, a smile automatically paints my face. Beginning to settle into my space, my fingers know they are about to run a marathon. With a quick flick of my wrist, a bright white light apple illuminates from the top of my laptop. A click or two, and then I am faced with a blank abyss of whiteness, begging for my words to sweep the pages.
When I was fourteen, I had an English teacher named Mrs. Hildebrand. Mrs. Hildebrand was the biggest Florida Marlin’s fan out there, and also one of the biggest assholes. Luckily for me, I was the president of my middle school’s National Junior Honor Society (yay for Kelsey) and Mrs. H was our Chapter supervisor. We organized school trips together, we conducted NJHS meetings together, we talked about current events together, we planned food drives together, and to toot my own horn, I even arranged a school fundraising event where we raised enough money to build a house in Haiti after the devastating earthquake.
Let’s put two and two together. She fucking loved me.
Mrs. Hildebrand was easily the first English teacher I had that really taught me how to love writing. Scratch that, she taught me writing. Up until eighth grade, I never put any ummph towards writing. I was just a person who wrote, not a writer. A writer doesn’t fill pages with words, a person who writes does. A writer deliberately dances around with word and comma placement, creating an alphabetical maze, illustrating personal thought and emotion.
It was here; kiss ass and all, that I fell in love with the practice of writing.
Through out high school my knowledge and desire to continue to write blossomed. Eagerly becoming the Editor in Chief of the school’s literary magazine, Prism, and continuing to breeze through my honors and AP English class. Unfortunately I went 0-2 on AP English tests, but that is a whole other essay on education.
I loved (and still do) the unlimited capacity of possibility. Confidence slithered down my spine when papers of mine reached teacher’s hands. Unfortunately my high school writing career did not consist solely of glamorous, creativity induced, literary poems and killer free range essays, oh no. There were Document Based Question essays for AP United States History and AP Government, which created a challenge for me seeing as though I did not comprehend a single speckling of information from either of those classes. And let’s not forget the 2,000 bullshitted word religious essays! Oh yes, two a quarter!
Now, as a third semester college student, I can easily say my writing practice has developed ten fold. I am in an English class where one of our textbooks title is, “Writing about Writing”… are you kidding me?! I am in an English class where I post most of my “homework” assignments to a blog using my own voice, in a laid back atmosphere. I am in an English class with a teacher that wants us to dig deeper than we thought we could, and relish the moment when a light bulb goes off in our heads.
Practice, the intended repetition of movements over time so as to improve a skill, activity, or performance. In the major league of writers, I am less than a rookie. I’m like a rookie of a rookie. But every professional was once a beginner.
I’m stuck. I would like to make a connection between the two practices in my life, taking the reader a little deeper into who I am and how my thoughts arise and drift. I’ve been mentally mapping out and playing with a few ideas and transition bridges, but can’t seem to find their way into words yet.
Patience though. That’s part of practice.
It’s funny, now that I am aware of writing processes I feel an utmost detest towards following any type of writing rule. I write to feel free, not to be bounded by what feels like hard-core rules. Hell, rules are made to be broken anyways.