To be honest, I am so very humbled to hear how people are responding to Living in Frames. The more I hear, the more impassioned I become in trying to keep a fluid, stream of consciousness going. Having an audience is motivating, but it also keeps me clear of how far this journey can continue. The possibilities are endless, so long as I have the language and desire to translate my experiences for you, my readers. And I enjoy sharing! (I am also a pretty, darn good listener and always open to conversations about the good ole' stuff, we call "life")
In a way, I think I was a born storyteller. How else could one explain the eclectic, feast of experiences that seem to have trailed me tirelessily, from the time of conception? My mother was already telling stories about my arrival, long before I came. And the detailed accounts of her plans for me, were meticulously logged, so when it was time for me to look back at my upbringing, I could catch up on the already backlogged material. Maybe it was in my blood? Or maybe it was just a growing appendage, like fingers defined by age and use.
I had many relatives who wrote, but never dared call themselves "writers". I guess I would be a second generation writer, knowing only of my mother who has finished a book (now if I could only get her to publish it!). Artists are many things, but least of all, coaxable.
My first real exposure to the written word, was through my mother reading 5 cent Golden Books that she had picked up in a supermarket aisle or a thrift store bookshelf, and the children's books she had written and illustrated herself, when she couldn't spare the change. She would line my crib with the fold-out books, to ooh and ahh at the pictures of simple shapes and characters, or hold me snug in her lap to point at the cardboard flaps. I would concentrate hard, grab with my chubby, dimpled hands, and sometimes mouth with slobbering, inquisition. I was a curious one, I was.
My mother's favorite image of me as an infant, was when she would lie me on my bareback, in the shaded grass of an Alabama summer, and I would stare wide-eyed at the rippling leaves of an old Chestnut. And as though that same calming energy ran through my own tiny body, I would coo like a small bird, in the comfort of my own cool, green nest. I felt a connection to my surroundings at a very young age, almost a connectedness, and consequently defined in me a sensitive and observant nature. And though to any artistically-minded individual, this would be a blessing, I have always had a love/hate relationship with the way I see the world.
If you have read my profile, which really doesn't tell you who I am, let alone say much of anything, the title of this blog, Living in Frames, came out of my own understanding of how I experience life. One may choose a quilt or a patchwork, as a better metaphor.
We all have these moments pieced together, but within those moments we have more minute details, and within those details, the smaller things we missed. The framework of our memory and our mind, can be as focused as those smallest things, like the veins of those rippling Chestnut leaves. Or the framework can be as broad as a lifetime. It's how we choose to step inside those frames, walk about, and appreciate them, that gives us our perspective.
So, that's my little anecdotal nugget, on Living in Frames, and why I chose the name for my blog.