I’ve been told that a writer is no greater than the sum of their experiences.
Experiences, those I’ve got, more than most. More than I’ll ever admit to. But are the ones I’ve accumulated the right inlay for the foundation of the life I want? I was never anyones high school sweetheart, but I was the mysterious girl at an Italian hotel. I’m not sure I’ve been anyone’s best friend, but I was the girl drinking beer at Elton Johns birthday party. I’ve never made cookies with my grandmother but I did learn to make a noodle kugel from a 90-year-old Holocaust survivor. I’ve never been to Disney World, but I’ve taken a taxi ride to feed monkeys in Middle Atlas. I’ll never be the person who works at the same company for 20 years, but I have taught anger management skills to gang members in South Central Los Angeles.
Are these the experiences that I’ll be glad I’ve accumulated? Are they the right ones because they’re more rare? Am I missing out on the beauty of a more traditional life? I’m not sure.
But I know that I have a gypsy soul that likes to wander, and doesn’t gravitate towards convention.