Awakenings and nonsensical explanations

I haven't taken care of this little blog of mine as well as I might have if people were actually reading it. For a good long while, I didn't have much to say. But right now, my mind is full and I need to let things out a little before they start to spill over at inopportune moments. I'm also debating whether I should keep it private or allow other eyes to see this part of me. Publicizing it, to me, makes me nervous for a number of reasons. Chiefly, I'm afraid it would make me seem to have a sense of self-importance.....and I don't really think anyone else particularly cares what I have to say. In the event I do choose to make it public, I should probably give a little insight into what is going on right now:

I'm a college student again. Never really thought that would happen. At the same time, I play full time paralegal, wife, and mother to the most precious little 4 year old boy. Probably not the easiest circumstances under which to pursue an education, but I've always made things harder for myself than was really necessary. I second guess myself with startling frequency....but I know at least for now that I'm on the right track.

I have two courses this semester, both of which I love beyond comprehension. One is World Civ. Post-15th Century. The other is Historical Methods.....an historical writing class for history majors. The writing class is serving as a springboard for my senior seminar which I will take in the fall. We are currently focused on choosing topics for this seminar which will culminate in the submission of a 20 page paper.

The idea for this paper is starting to occupy more space in my head than I had originally intended to lease out. And I'm not even supposed to be writing it yet. Researching, yes....writing, no. But it's always in the back of my mind, a roiling and rising storm. I never had a particular interest in the U.S. Civil War before, almost always regarding it as a black mark on America's history and more afraid of what I might learn than interested in what I might come to understand. I never considered the people involved. But now I have to. Not now now, but now soon.

I make little notes everywhere.....on sticky pads, in notebooks, on random slips of paper which will no doubt disappear and resurface years from now when they're no longer helpful. It's not uncommon for me to drive with pen in hand and a notebook open on the passenger seat, as I do some of my best thinking while driving.

My dreams take place on battlefields. I wander among the soldiers and wonder about their families waiting for them to come home. I wonder when they've last eaten, when they last felt whole. I find it interesting that in my dreams, it is unclear which army I accompany. I see them only as soldiers, boys and men, hungry and homesick. My dress is not like theirs. Barefoot and clad in my favorite pajama pants and Dixie Chicken t-shirt, I step lightly across damp blades of grass and bend slightly lower to remain unseen but also to lean closer and check on these boys the same way I check on my son in the middle of the night.

Dreams of battlefields aside, I'm also fascinated by the women of the era, particularly the Southern women - the women whose diaries I am reading, looking in on their private lives and trying to gain some understanding as to what they believed and why they chose to put their thoughts on paper. I want to see them as real people, in spite of their class and station in life. I want to understand what made them so damned determined that they were right. I have to stand before the class week after next and give some sort of reasoning for my choice of topic and where I want to go with it.....and for right now, I have no idea what I am going to say. This is the part that bothers me.....having to explain myself. Not an easy thing to do.

Anxiety aside, this semester has been amazing. It has awakened something inside me that I long thought dormant, if not dead. For years I have felt mute, unable to think or feel or give any indication that I even want to. Words are my art and I have the ability to express my thoughts and feelings with greater clarity through writing than through speech. Written words provide me with a sense of safety and yet at the same time lay bare a terrifying sense of danger. How's that for paradox?