A friend gave me a copy of bird by bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott. I started reading it today, and about halfway through the introduction I knew I could really connect with this writer, and that I wanted to take it slow. 

I have a habit of tearing through a book. I've mentioned I ripped through four Game of Thrones novels in just over a week. The problem with that is the experience is intense at the time, but it rolls away quickly, like a hard rain that's come too fast for parched earth to absorb.

As I read, little memories perked up and swirled about, and it made me want to stop and look at them. I have a lot of "unapplied introspection" stored up from these past couple of years, and with the mental shifts I've been going through, I think it's worth getting to know myself again, or maybe for the first time, with new perspective. 

… 

I didn't grow up with writers, or even readers, really, but my mom either recognized my love for books, or encouraged me in it when I was very young. I read early, and I read a lot. In first grade my teacher had individual wheels posted on the bulletin board where we could write a book title like a spoke in the wheel and affix a metallic star next to it when we finished reading. I filled several of the wheels, probably more than half the class combined, and every weekend my mom would take me to the library to check out more books for the coming week. 

After a while I'd exhausted the children's section, and the librarians granted me special permission to browse in the main library. I took that as a supreme honor, and was careful to behave in a way that communicated my appreciation of their trust. 

There was a chapel next to the library and sometimes my mom would have a wedding or other event to play for, and the librarians would allow me to read unaccompanied by an adult. This was a bigger deal than it sounds, because we were on a military base. In order to check out a book, I had to write my father's SSN on the check out slip. I had my father's SSN memorized before I even had a SSN of my own.

Anne Lamott wrote about having her first poem published when she was in grade school. I had the same experience. In fourth grade I wrote a poem about a baby squirrel my dad had brought home from the woods. He had told me I couldn't name him unless he lived for a specific length of time. I held him under my shirt against my skin and fed him with an eyedropper. The morning I was going to be able to name him, I woke to find him cold and shriveled. I don't have the poem. I just remember what it felt like to see it in a book.

Lamott was very thin and not conventionally pretty. She writes about being included on outings with the popular kids because she was funny, and she had a way of telling a story, knowing what to emphasize or exaggerate to make it entertaining. I was the fat kid, included in high school for the same reasons. I was funny. I told a good story. I was never actually part of the group, but accepted in it. I was able to get along with people in all the cliques, and frequently used that access to smooth tensions or resolve conflicts.

And here Lamott writes about her father: "I suspect he was a child who thought differently than his peers, who may have had serious conversations with grown ups, who as a young person, like me, accepted being alone quite a lot. I think that this sort of person often becomes either a writer or a career criminal."

My mother often told me I was never really a child. She said I was born an old woman, and I much preferred sitting with the women doing crafts or cooking, than going out with kids my own age. I barely remember spending time with children at all when I was young. I was always alone, or with an animal of some kind. 

When I was still young enough to believe in Santa, I freaked my mom out by writing a Christmas letter asking for wisdom. Around that same age I remember having an appointment with our minister because I noticed in a painting of the crucifixion that Jesus' hands were nailed, but the other two hanging with him were tied with rope. I wanted to know why. I honestly don't know if my mom was concerned about me or just out of her depth. Although, that was also around the time my dreams started coming true, but that's something else.

Unless it isn't.

I did think differently than other people my age. I saw the world differently. I always have. I haven't always handled that well. Or used it at all. I mean, sometimes, when people have been hurt or upset I've been able to offer a different perspective, but not as often as I could have. 

I was thinking earlier today that thinking differently about things, seeing things differently, being able to pick the parts to highlight, those are tools for story telling. Those are tools for counseling. They're tools for interpreting. They're tools I use in training all the time. 

Something that has come out of my two year hibernation is that I've completely stepped out of the corporate culture. I have interactions online and on the phone with friends, and I have personal interactions with delivery drivers and cats, but other than the plots of television shows, I'm virtually culture-free. I've joked about becoming the Baba Yaga, the witch in the woods, and I honestly can if I want to.

I look at my friend who gave me the book, about the stories she tells, about how when I first read her words I could sense her depth of spirit. In a different time would we sit beside a fire telling stories, teaching stories, healing stories?

My mother says I was born an old woman. I see the world a different way. I love words. I feel deeply. This is who I am.