OK, I can't really explain this, but I think many of you probably know what I am talking about so you will understand what I mean anyway. One of the reasons I love reading books so much is that there is something about events of life being written down, and described the way they are, that gives them new meaning, or maybe I should say more meaning. It makes me see similar things in my own life through a new light. I think writing things down myself does the same type of thing. It somehow increases the significance of the events, thoughts, or feelings. Maybe it is like poetry -- you know, something is no longer just a flower or just a sunset, it has depth and beauty and purpose. It helps me to not only appreciate experiences and relationships more, but to be more aware of all the angles and sides of them. Does that make sense? I think we all have little moments in our lives, even just our normal run of the mill daily routines that -- when written down or thought about differently simply from reading something similar -- suddenly become more interesting, more unique -- more a story or movie all our own.
The other day I read some of my journal from when I began dating Mike for the second time (the time that lead to our engagement and marriage). It made me so happy to remember those moments and it seemed like it could be written out as a romance novel just like most everyone's story probably could. Here is a little example (I won't fill in all the background here, I just liked that this little minute in time with Mike was recorded).
June 1, 99 -- Tuesday
Last night . . . it was so quick I can't remember it really, but as I left I said, "Thanks for doing stuff with me again, Mike."
We were just parting and he gave a nonchalant, "Yah, no problem," but then I think he quickly realized there was more in my words than simply, "Thanks for hanging out tonight" because he paused and said more seriously, "Am I calling too much? I worry about that. . . . I know you probably . . ."
"No!" I said a bit too eagerly, but then said nothing further other than, "I like it when you call me." Then, and I'm not sure why, I added, "It's weird. Before, I knew right where everything stood. Now, I have no idea. It's like I just met you. . . . except it doesn't seem like it was four months with out talking to you."
He agreed and said, "It's because you make people comfortable."
I smiled. At least we were somehow holding hands for the moment. I don't think either of us had any intention of having a serious conversation though, and that seemed sufficient for the moment, so we said goodbye.
See, now I want to write that in a book -- throw in a little about it being night and a few details about looking down or biting my lip and -- wah lah -- my own little life a story moment.