A seven hour layover is not something on really looks forward to. Really, there are only so many laps of the terminal, so many trips to the bathroom, so many coffees one can drink before the jitters begin and the inner ten year old child comes out and you just have to admit that YOU ARE BORED!
About one hour into the layover, I was at this point. Surrounded by a group of adults, all of whom were sitting like big kids, I had to put on my best poker face and find a way to entertain myself.
I journaled first- the writer in me not as tired as my physical body. I got to the point in my book where I am supposed to try my hand at the personal essay. I feel like every blog post that I write is a sort of personal essay rough draft. This should be a breeze, and it should keep me occupied for at least a couple of hours, right?
Wrong. I sat and closed my eyes, leaned back in the office like chairs of the terminal, and searched my soul for the well of inspiration that I knew would be hiding deep within.
And I sat. And I thought. And I sat. And I thought. Nothing.
I’m sitting in an airport with absolutely nothing to distract me from writing- there is no cleaning that I can do, no books to read, no internet to play on- and I can’t think of a single freaking memory worth writing about.
I have to have memories I thought to myself. I didn’t just wake up happily married to Nathan. I made a list. Twenty-four years of existence should give me a plethora of ideas, but my list consisted of a mere nine items. I know there are more, but it just seems that at that moment they were content to stay hidden. My subconscious is hiding things from me, yet again.
More than anything, this lapse in memories has made me want to be even more vigilant with my blog and my journal and all the old half and even partially filled journals that are hidden away in my office, that I have picked up several times and said I should really get rid of these. I don’t know if I will always have trouble remembering; I don’t know if I’m just in the process of writing through a writing block. What I do know is that I don’t ever want to forget and I always want to have a place to go to remember.
The written word does more than just console me. Hopefully, one day it will remind me of what I have forgotten. Better yet, maybe one day some of my great great grandchildren can read my story. Not just mine either- mine, Nathan’s, our friend’s and our family’s. That sense of preservation makes it all worth it.