rocking horse

As is the case today, I had difficulty falling asleep as a child. It seemed, according to my parents at least, that I needed a highly structured ritual before going to bed. This had begun very early on, and they had established quite a few rituals, like reading me bedtime stories... and all to no avail. I blame this partly on my night owl tendencies- it's like my internal clock refuses to work with the sun- but I also believe I needed just one more prefect ritual.

And then one night, I found it (the rainbow connection... the lovers, the dreamers... ahem. sorry): my rocking horse. This rocking horse was no ordinary horse. It was a really ugly, plastic horse with a lame dye job. It was attached by rusty metal springs to a rusted metal frame. This was no beaut of a horse by any streeeeetch of the imagination. Yet it had its own appeal. Climbing up on it that first night, I began to recite everything I'd done that day, and by everything I mean I detailed getting up, what I'd eaten for breakfast, what my mother had forced me to wear (I hated dresses, and she leaned to the pink and frilly), what games and creative play I'd engaged in that day, etc, etc. I do recall this monologue, but only my parents remember the rest. Apparently, I would finish my verbal daily review, scramble down, march to my bed, climb in, and promptly fall right to sleep. And this I proceeded to do every night. Every single night for several years. Crazy, right?

Well, at some point, the family decided that the horse really did belong in the boys' room. Though I campaigned vigorously, the move was made, and my Holly Hobby room no longer contained the hideous horse. I was having none of this; a girl really does need her beauty rest, after all. I made it a habit of waiting until my brothers were asleep before sneaking into the room, crawling up on my faithful steed, and getting that little ritual out of the way. I think I got away with it for awhile (apparently my brothers are heavy sleepers?), but at some point, my rouse was discovered and the horse was removed from the home. Devastating? The grief was equivalent to losing a pet in my world.

It wasn't until fifth grade that I discovered a suitable replacement for my rocking horse ritual. I have to say that I really wasn't too impressed with my teacher that year. To say she was uninspiring would be understating it. However, we really enjoyed listening to her read aloud to us after lunch (also called nap time), and she introduced me to journaling.

I admit I was skeptical when she handed out the stenographer notebooks, with the spiral binding at the top. She explained that they were our private journals, and she would not read them unless we submitted them to her with a paper to mark the entry we'd like her to read. Often, she'd write a prompt on the board, which you could choose to use or ignore, as long as you wrote something. Kids around me rolled their eyes and wrote repetitious sentences or a list of stuff they wanted for Christmas or their birthday. Hiding my notebook in the crook of my arm, I dug in with glee, scrawling elaborate stories and terribly rhymed poetry which I truly believed were the height of creativity and brilliance. I would hand in my notebook, my heart thudding with nervous excitement, in hopes that my teacher would one day comment that this was the most profound writing she had ever experienced. I would one day be a famous author.

Soon after those notebooks were handed out, I'd convinced my mother that I absolutely had to have a diary with a little heart shaped lock and key, and this became my new (much prettier and much quieter) rocking horse. Every night, after I'd performed the nightly bedtime ritual of brushing my teeth and putting on my PJs, I'd crawl into bed, unlock my diary, and list everything I had done that day. At that point, I very rarely commented on my opinions or feelings about the events. It was enough to simply write the facts of the day and unceremoniously fall asleep.

Journaling became a necessary part of my life for many years, even through college. While teaching, I found that writing was my favorite subject to teach, and often wrote pieces along with students to model for them. I resumed a journal style in writing a blog of my experiences living in China for ten months. And I find I am very much enjoying the release I get in writing this blog.

Wish I could find something to help me sleep now, though...