scijessreads

Like many, at some point growing up I thought I wanted to be a writer. I’m pretty sure I had the start of a few books that are now lost on discarded hard disks long-relegated to the trash or recycling pile. My favorite classes as a kid were biology and English. I loved writing stories, although I think I may have loved editing them even more. Maybe it was a way for me, the only child that lived far from all her friends up on the mountain, to create my own little worlds. I was (and am now) a voracious reader. Reading just required me and a comfy place to curl up. It was an easy way to live a thousand lives and travel to incredible places. And I thought that writing was an extension of that love.

As I grew older, a lot of my childhood activities fell by the wayside. Writing. Drawing. Cross-stitch. Taking pictures. Playing the flute (proud marching band member all through high school). The things I did with my hands when I had nothing else to do got supplanted by college classes and labs, and later by grad school and being forced to read journal articles rather than grand space adventures.

There were definitely times during those phases when I would sporadically pick back up on old hobbies. I took a poetry class in college as an elective (I just found some of those old poems that I need to post here). I finally managed to read a book that wasn’t a textbook. I started and discarded an alarming number of online blogs/journals (so, here’s hoping this one at least sticks around for a bit).

And now, sometimes, I find myself writing down phrases tied to the emotions that I am too scared or unable to say out loud. So I put them into text. The above lines came from a space of wanting human connection. I have been on my own (in terms of romantic relationships) for a while. But I still crave those moments of intimacy where it’s not so much about the grand gesture, but about the small moments that create connection. That reminds you someone is there, even when it is quiet. And that those moments are the ones that mean more than anything in the world.

But as I posted that thought here, I also realized that it transcends romantic ideals and can be applied to a broader scope. In the end, what we all want is to feel or do or be someone that matters even a little bit. Maybe we can do something so small that means so much, to either ourselves or someone else. We want the true, real moments, even if we don’t voice that desire. Grand is great, but truth and connection are even better. Knowing and feeling that you matter are better.