I love to look at the rain. I do not, however, love the way it feels on my skin — especially on my legs. I’m wearing shorts today and need to go out later, which means I’ll be changing into pants because I cannot deal with wet-legged sadness. Why am I telling you this? I honestly don’t know. Maybe because I’ve been thinking about quirkiness and all the little weird things that make each of us different.
On my better days, I’ve always loved how strange and fascinating people can be. Everyone is some weird, wonderful version of themselves. But lately, I feel like I’ve become a slightly darker version of me. Where I was once bright colors and bold flower patterns, now I’m more like… dark-colored flowers on a black background. Less Claude Monet, more Peter Paul Rubens. (And not trying to sound fancy here — it’s been raining, and we went to the library to look at art books while trying to add some culture beyond Bluey.)
Honestly, I opened this document thinking I might try to write a poem. I’ve been struggling a bit with writing, but I’m a writer now. People actually buy my books and everything. So I feel like I should write something every day. At least that’s what Anne Lamott says in Bird by Bird, and she seems like someone who knows things.
So I thought, maybe I’ll write a poem. My kids love Shel Silverstein’s quirky weirdness. I love him too, but sometimes when I read his poems, I feel like there’s something a little bit dark hiding in the shadows of all that silliness. Yes, it’s funny. But it also feels like there’s a sigh behind the punchline. And maybe that’s true of people too.
Even the ones who are trying really hard to be “normal.” The ones who seem like sunny little Monet paintings. I think most of us are secretly a little quirky. We all have oddities and eccentricities that make us interesting.
I don’t know if my thing about rain is interesting. I do know it’s weird. But maybe the world would be better if we gave each other a little more space to be weird. If we appreciated the quirks instead of getting annoyed by them. Maybe there’s space for the light flowers and the dark flowers to be in the same garden. Maybe even in the same painting.
And maybe — just maybe — I can write a poem today. Because I can, darn it.
A poem because I can, darn it
Help me write a poem, I said
And they said,
“A poem?”
As if they didn’t know the word
Both went back to their business
And ignored me
That’s a first
The back to their business part, not the ignoring
They are pros at ignoring
Clearly I am not a pro
At poems
Want more heartfelt weirdness?
Check out my latest children’s book Shame is My Monster on Amazon. It’s quirky and honest and might just be the reminder kids (and grownups) need that big feelings are okay — and being a little weird is wonderful.
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