I think the hardest part about writing these blogs is coming up with a place to start. You excavate through your dusty mind and search endlessly for some bright and clever idea to write down and expand on.
You obviously don't want to get too personal that's quite a big risk. And expressing that to not only your peers but the entire internet? Yikes, it's probably best to cut back a little.
But right now I guess I'm going to be a hypocrite and get a little personal.
One distinctive memory I have is when I was younger, around 4 or 5. Instead of going to preschool, I went to a daycare that taught me all my ABC's, colors and all that jazz. Going to this daycare, I was just happy to see everyone and anyone who was willing to play with Polly Pockets and watch Disney movies with me. But while I was there, I ended meeting one of my best friends.
We had so much in common it was ridiculous. We were both born around the same time, at the same hospital, and we would both sing along to all of the movies we watched and memorize every line and scene. She was the sister I never had and only dreamed of having.
But one thing I remember about this friendship is when we used to race each other. At the far end of the yard outside the daycare, there was a picnic table slowly rotting away. Almost every day we would look at each other and say, "Race you to the picnic table," and off we went. Sprinting and running as fast as we could, the wind would whiz so fast against me it felt ice cold against my cheeks. I remember feeling my heart beat faster and faster as each step off the ground brought me closer to the picnic table. And before I knew it, I had made it. I had won the race like I always had time after time again.
But I didn't like winning, I hated winning. It put this feeling in the pit of my stomach that made me feel so ashamed and disappointed in myself. Now why would winning make me feel like I was ready to vomit? It's because every time I reached that picnic table first, I would look back behind me; a smile spread across my face, and notice that my best friend, the sister I had always wanted, wasn't even half way there and had eyes filled with tears.
So what's the point of me telling this story? I guess it's because it's a story that needs to be told. It's sort of a fable I guess, a story about winning not being soley about it's shine and glory. Sometimes it's not important to win every race or competition. I guess the lesson in this story is remembering the ones you left behind
We had so much in common it was ridiculous. We were both born around the same time, at the same hospital, and we would both sing along to all of the movies we watched and memorize every line and scene. She was the sister I never had and only dreamed of having.
But one thing I remember about this friendship is when we used to race each other. At the far end of the yard outside the daycare, there was a picnic table slowly rotting away. Almost every day we would look at each other and say, "Race you to the picnic table," and off we went. Sprinting and running as fast as we could, the wind would whiz so fast against me it felt ice cold against my cheeks. I remember feeling my heart beat faster and faster as each step off the ground brought me closer to the picnic table. And before I knew it, I had made it. I had won the race like I always had time after time again.
But I didn't like winning, I hated winning. It put this feeling in the pit of my stomach that made me feel so ashamed and disappointed in myself. Now why would winning make me feel like I was ready to vomit? It's because every time I reached that picnic table first, I would look back behind me; a smile spread across my face, and notice that my best friend, the sister I had always wanted, wasn't even half way there and had eyes filled with tears.
So what's the point of me telling this story? I guess it's because it's a story that needs to be told. It's sort of a fable I guess, a story about winning not being soley about it's shine and glory. Sometimes it's not important to win every race or competition. I guess the lesson in this story is remembering the ones you left behind
This is so sweet and sat and I might be tearing up a little right now but don't tell anyone. It's really beautiful that you can confess that feeling, when you don't WANT to win.
ReplyDeleteI can relate completely about not knowing what to write these blogs about. I sit there and think of a million stories. This ones too personal, this ones too simple, this ones to predictable, this ones too boring. It can be so difficult to share something close to you, but I think those are the best stories. If you aren't invested in what your talking about the reader won't be either.
ReplyDeleteWow this is good Dakota. Its strange how such an important lesson can happen when we're young.
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