Finding Myself

On Monday, a friend from high school - Janet - dropped by the house to visit which was extremely fun. It had been at least five years since I last saw her in Austin, TX; she now lives in New York. Something she said rocked from side to side in my cranium all week. Janet has an elegant, pristine, operatic singing voice. I remember her many solos in high school, marveling at her talent. She still sings and plans to take voice lessons - to pursue musicals and other opportunities more often. Her desk job is truly fulfilling in some ways, she said, but if she is not singing - a significant part of who she is - she feels lost. She loses herself on the streets of New York City.

During my Hotze treatment, while I anticipate the balance of hormones and feeling healthier, I've been severely distracted. I think part of my scatter-brain is the thyroid imbalance and such, but I've also been busy. Blogging lots, trying to capture simplicity in photographs, shopping online (I stumble on a new site every day, like this one), listening to new music, salivating over stunning photographs (that one is my new computer desktop), ruminating on how to decorate the sparse guest bedroom, deciding where to shop for desperately-needed new clothes, and so on. One vital activity I've neglected is reading. Sure, I flip through magazines, view great blogs, and read articles in The New York Times, but I realized that I haven't completed a book in several months. I did read most of Dr. Hotze's Hormones, Health, and Happiness, and though I give it five stars (it is full of valuable information), it was not the same as a good novel, biography, or a poetry collection.

And so, while Johnny drummed at rehearsal last night, I selected a book from my nightstand: Anchored in Love: an Intimate Portrait of June Carter Cash by John Carter Cash. Within a few pages, I found myself lost in the charming and strong life of June Carter Cash, told lovingly yet honestly by her son. This morning I could not clean the kitchen until I finished the chapter wherein John Carter Cash described the time that he, his parents, and a few friends were held hostage at Johnny's and June's Jamaican mansion, Cinnamon Hill. I already knew the happy ending from Cash: The Autobiography, but I was mesmerized by the version told by Johnny Cash's son, then twelve years old, held at gunpoint.

There are times I must get topsy-turvy-lost to find myself again, sitting in the same spot. Singing for Janet, and words for me. Words both in books and ones I scrawl with a pen (or clack on my keyboard). I've made a decision. Each day must start with illuminated Words from the Psalms and the week must allow for several lounges on the couch with a good book. Reading is essential for any writer, I do believe. A writing teacher in every book.

This is related: my friend Katy went and invited me to GoodReads. I'm already way in over my head at Shelfari, but I'll play a little at GoodReads, too. I'm bookish to the max.

This is not related: evidence of my shopping spree continues to roll in. Magnetic note pads for to-do and grocery lists, and a Sugar Rush soybean candle: