looking through me

Tag: words

June 4, 2015

slow learner

I am a slow learner. A forgetful learner. A partial learner. A re-learner.

I find words I’ve written—pen strokes made with my very own hand—stating a lesson learned . . . but too often it’s one I find I’ve unlearned in the intervening minutes and days and years.

So I learn again. I read the words. I remember the impact of the realization. And I pray I might internalize a fraction more of what seemed impossible to forget the first time. I press into the practice of re-learning.

I’m a good student. Given a concept packaged with a syllabi and homework and tests I will demonstrate mastery. But I’m not a good learner. Slip the lesson into life, and I will make a mental note . . . and minimal application. As oil and water separate, new lessons and old habits kiss and part ways.

I need repetition: the same truth encountered in lesson . . . after lesson . . . after lesson. A constant stirring and blending of known and new.

The rhythm of practice builds my memory. I fielded ground balls over and over during softball drills to make the play routine in the middle of the game. I ran through scales over and over in band to hit the notes in the show. But in life the minutes of the day cannot be parsed into practice and performance. Each moment is learning and re-learning, practicing and executing.

And with the extension of grace to my forgetful self I see fragile growth. Muscle memory develops beyond the physical and spreads to the mental and spiritual. I am learning . . . slowly . . . with hiccups and hesitations and unexpected gains.

I record the lessons in their various iterations—slightly rephrased as new facets flash in the light of re-learning—grateful for each lesson learned that finds its way into the regular routine of the day.

 

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April 2, 2015

write . . . small

I write small.

I majored in journalism, partly because—though I couldn’t have articulated it then—I love writing the unfolding story. I love the immediacy of telling the story in real time, rarely knowing the ending, while digging into the past to make sense of the present. It’s layered and nuanced. And it’s true . . . or a documentation of the pursuit of truth.

When I didn’t become a journalist, I stopped writing. I lost my story-telling outlet. But ten years later, I went to a writing workshop because the words were piling up inside and needed an escape.

The first assignment was to write a “slice of life” in 350 words or less. I loved the constraint of the word count: it required a narrow focus zoomed in on one moment to tell an entire story. Like a droplet of water on a timeline the story magnified one event to comprehensible proportions.

Long after the workshop ended, I am still examining small slices and writing what I see. I mount each specimen of life and slide it under the lens of my writing microscope. And I record what I see. One magnified cross-section at a time.

The small moments take on new dimensions, greater depth and detail, under magnification. Anything larger than a moment is too big. It needs to be small enough to slip in my pocket and carry with me. I need to roll it around in my fingers and pull it out to see it in different lights, at different times of day, in different contexts. If I can see it with my naked eye, I miss the intricacy close examination reveals.

It’s the accumulation of seemingly insignificant, mundane, often overlooked moments that shape me. I’m not formed by the extraordinary nearly as much as by the ordinary. Those are the moments I need to delve into and learn from; that’s my writing process.

So I write the tiny building blocks of life . . . I write small.

 

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