My six-word autobiography.

It's a work in progress, of course, since I've got a fair bit more living to do (or so one would hope). But I think it hits the major points of the journey thus far.

Sought God. Found self. Loved -- simply.

That's the six-word story for this seminary dropout and would-be minimalist. What's yours?

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Some other six-word memoirs that I rather liked:

• "Desire 4 words, not just 3."
• "Life companion found in kennel eight."
• And the charmingly illustrative, "At a spork in the road."

"Ryan, your word is: 'Independent.'"

You know how every now and then, a long-forgotten memory springs to mind unbidden? This is one of those. It's from my elementary school days, although I can't recall exactly when.

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It's the early afternoon, and I'm lined up in front of the chalkboard with the rest of my classmates. You would think a spelling bee would be cause for alarm or stress of some kind, but you'd be wrong.

See, I've got this thing locked down.

One by one, we go down the line. Each kid gets two tries to spell their assigned word correctly. Every few minutes sees someone return to their seat. They are played off stage by a smattering of hey-that-was-a-good-try applause by the rest of the class -- and a good deal of silent judgment by yours truly.

My smug superiority grows as the field narrows. I've taken to removing and polishing my clunky, old-man glasses when it's my turn. I imagine it gives off just the right devil-may-care attitude.

It's down to just two of us now. My classmate is a clever girl with a sweet personality. Smart, sure -- but she's no Ryan. We go back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Trading words. Waiting for the other person to mess up. Tiring, but unwilling to give up.

(I would have described it as a little battle of attrition, if I'd known what "attrition" meant. I probably envisioned some epic good-vs-evil struggle involving Ninja Turtles instead.)

My turn again, now.

"Ryan, your word is: 'Independent.'"

Easy-peasy. "I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-A-N-T. 'Independent.'"

Then, the unthinkable: "I'm sorry, that is incorrect. One more try: 'Independent.'"

I pause to look up from polishing my glasses, squinting suspiciously at the blurred form of my teacher (or her file cabinet, I'm not sure which). Certain that she must have misheard me, I repeat my answer.

"I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-A-N-T."

And she repeats hers: "I'm sorry, that is incorrect."

My memory blurs from this point.

I remember my classmate spelling the word correctly -- "I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T" -- and winning the class spelling bee. I remember returning to my desk, trying to piece together what had gone wrong.

And I remember my conclusion:

"Man, that the teacher's spelling book must have a typo or something."

---

Yeah, younger Ryan was kind of a jackass.

The kid who thought he stood head and shoulders above the rest. Front of the class. At the head of the pack. A boy apart.

Independant, you might say.

A grandmother's gift and the power of words.

Group picture! See me in the third row?

Back when I was in high school, my Japanese class organized a trip to Japan. While the school helped with some travel expenses, the final price was still out of my reach -- at least, until my grandma generously offered to make up the difference.

Grandma had just one request: That I keep a journal of my thoughts while there. At the time, I figured she wanted to read my notes as a sort of vacation-by-proxy, so I was happy to do it. A small price to pay for a trip, I figured.

In hindsight, I think her goal was rather different: I believe that my grandmother -- a longtime teacher -- wanted to give me a lesson in the staying power of words.

This being a school trip, we spent most of our days bouncing from temple to temple (for years afterward, I assumed temples were the cultural and educational height of Japanese civilization). We being high school kids, we spent most of our evenings seeking out arcades or shopping malls.

My trip buddies did a fair bit of souvenir shopping, too, as high schoolers are wont to do. Unsurprisingly, they went for cool electronics that were hard to come by stateside -- we were in Japan, after all. At the time, MiniDisc players were the pinnacle of audio technology, so that's what many folks bought.

Now, years later, old tech like that has been largely mothballed at eBay and craigslist. On the other hand, my travel journal -- recently rediscovered during a bout of cleaning -- has only gotten more valuable over time.

It's an insight into a younger Ryan, warts and all. Wince-worthy prose. Grin-inducing memories. Some truly awful attempts at Dave Barry-esque humor (yeesh). 

Looking back, I suppose that was one of the first journals I ever kept. And I haven't really stopped since then.

As it turned out, I never did share my journal with my grandma. I don't recall why; I imagine I just forgot about it. She moved on years ago, so I've missed that opportunity, but I take comfort in knowing that her lesson stuck with me.

Thanks, Grandma.