“Mom, why do you write so much?” said my 8-year-old as she perused one of many notebooks that sits on my desk. Pages and pages are filled with thoughts and worries and ideas and dreams and words. So many words. Always in blue ink. She scans the pages, her mouth slightly open, maybe in awe, as she gazes upon my literary guts that I’ve spilled across those pages in an effort to clear my mind, clear my head, get perspective, and most importantly, heal.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve written. Hours, days, maybe weeks of my life have been spent on my bed, legs in the air, feet crossed, and writing. Through my preteen years — so much self-loathing in those years; through my teen years — so much anxiety and insecurity; through my college years and 20s and first married and children and first houses. There are large gaps missing in my life when I guess those were the times when I wanted to run away from myself and all the navel gazing that comes with journaling. This still happens from time to time, and you can easily guess when I’m back to writing more because the words multiply over and over and over again, and they spill out from me, and eventually I end up back here to write to whoever may be out there in this vast worldwide web that may, at some point, happen upon the virtual navel gazing that happens here.
What is there to write about?
This year hasn’t been the easiest year. But you know what? Last year wasn’t either. And while I’m thinking about it, the year before that wasn’t either.
This year has been an amazing year. And you know what? Last year was too. And while I’m thinking about it, the year before that was as well.
Jason has said on more than one occasion throughout our relationship that he wished he had the way with words that I had. Friends and family have said similar things.
In my younger years (I’d like to say “in my youth”, but even though I’m 36, I’d rather pretend I’m too young to say that still!), after being told that we all have our special talents, and that even God himself gave us unique gifts and talents that we are to use to enrich others with, I’d wonder what my talent was, what my gift was that I could share with others. Would I be a doctor and heal the sick? Would I be a lawyer and protect the innocent? Would I be an artist? Maybe a writer? I wasn’t ever really sure what it was that I would be. In reality, as an full-fledged grown-up, I realize that the answer isn’t always so concrete.
Maybe I should have taken this hobby of mine and honed into a craft. Maybe I’m missing out on a large chunk of satisfaction in my life because I’m not nurturing this essential part of me.
I don’t know. So many maybes in life, I guess it’s not really worth my time to second guess everything.
What I do know is right now the words are spilling out across the pages of my notebooks, journals, and now this blog. I’ll just enjoy it and see where it takes me!