Thoughts flee like fish. They seem so beautiful when one swims near me, but when I reach in to grab and pull them to the surface, refractions of memory distort my vision and they scatter. It takes a concerted effort, a serious determination on my part to actually write something worth reading.

I’ve been thinking about writing a lot. It’s something I want to do, something I need to do. This might mean that I’ll stop posting here for a while, save the occasional “this is what’s happening in my life” posts. Then again, it could mean I’ll be writing more posts. Hard to tell. I’ve been saying it for a long time, but I really, really need to write. Here’s a few random, scattered thoughts that I’ve brought up before they slipped out of my hands back into the watery depths.

I visited some mud caves in Ocotillo with a few friends on Saturday. They were inspiring (the caves I mean, though the friends weren’t half bad either). I’d really like to do more cave exploring in the future. It’s a lot of fun and I feel that I am at a place where my personal fitness would not be a hindrance to exploring the more frequented caves. Plus, it’s just fun to say that I’m going out spelunking.

I celebrated my sister’s birthday and it was a good reminder of how thankful I am for her, and, as a matter of fact, for all my family.

After purposefully putting it off for a long time, I did a quick read-through of my High School Senior Year Book (not sure if all those capitals were necessary, but best to play it safe). I wouldn’t say it brought back a flood of memories and emotions, but rather that they slowly drifted in one by one, and are still returning. I’m amazed at how insightful some people were with what they had written to me, sometimes people I barely remembered. I was shocked by an encouraging note written by a girl who had committed suicide a couple years later. That event impacted me significantly, and probably always will. I thought if there was any way I could go back and somehow prevent such a tragedy from happening, I would, without a doubt. In another note, someone warned me against letting my talents go to waste. It made me reflect on how little I use my creativity now compared to how often I used it back then. I wondered why that is and how I can change it. Reading through those notes, I felt like I now understood some of those people from my past (and myself) better. I thought of how vain many of us were back then and how vain I continue to be today. And yet, I know I’ve grown a lot. I don’t know if I’m a whole new person but I’m definitely a different person from before.

For my sister’s birthday, I’d bought her a book she really wanted by Donald Miller, one of her favorite authors. In the opening, he writes about memories, how infrequently they are retained and how a friend of his deemed them so important as to write them down so as not to forget. I do think they’re important and there are few things I love more than creating really great memories with people and being able to later reflect fondly upon times gone by. And yet, I don’t believe memories are all we have, despite what some may say. Memories, even those that are lost, still effect us some way, still shape who we are and who we become. I thank God for the way He created our minds to work and I marvel that His grace remains whether we remember or forget. I think there is sometimes a beauty in forgetting. Is He not the One who chooses to remember our sins no more?

From Orson Scott Card in his introduction to Speaker for the Dead:

“You see, the work of a storyteller doesn’t get any easier the more experience we get, because once we’ve learned how to do something, we can’t get excited about doing exactly the same thing again—or at least most of us can’t. We keep wanting to reach for the story that is too hard for us to tell—and then make ourselves learn how to tell it. If we succeed, then maybe we can write better and better books, or at least more challenging ones, or at the very least we won’t bore ourselves.

The danger that keeps me just a little frightened with every book I write, however, is that I’ll overreach myself once too often and try to write a story that I’m just plain not talented or skilled enough to write. That’s the dilemma every storyteller faces. It is painful to fail. But it is far sadder when a storyteller stops wanting to try.”