I’ll never stop writing.
I think about the times that I’ve spent writing in my life – papers, research, and creative.
I remember the time in second grade. We’d just moved to upstate New York. Really, it was a mere hour and a half from the city, but everyone referred to it as upstate. The story, though, is that I was sick from school on a much anticipated day. It was the day that everyone let go of their balloons. The goal I’m guessing was to follow the wind patterns and see where that balloons went, but for us it was just fun. And it was on that day that I got stuck at home sick. Feeling awful and trying to go in to school was not something to be done lightly. And this day I really wanted to go. I was excited, but sadly my body said NO! So I stayed home and upon arrival at school the following day, found that someone had released my balloon for me.
We had a follow up assignment for this project which was to describe the day and the experience. I was not let out of this even though I had been absent. So I asked a lot of questions to the person, I wish I could remember who it was, and set to writing.
No matter the time or circumstance I’ve always been a writer. I consider it to be one of the main ways that I communicate. Next to physically it is the most clear to me.
Despite various technological challenges put in my way, my break from blogging was really one from posting, not writing.
I also think of my friend Karen Ribeiro who literally wrote a book (called Thirsty in case you’re curious) on how journaling changed her life, coaches people how to connect to themselves through writing, and it reminds me of the piles of journals from times past that I have in boxes.
Pain, pleasure and time are all written there. Joy, abuse, pain, sorrow, love, emotion on a real level shared healthily.
You won’t like my writing if you want everything to be linear. You won’t like it if you need everything to be said. Listen to what I am saying between the lines. Know that what I am telling you will circle back to the initial point. Probably.
Looking back on journals from when I was younger I think about how clueless I was as a teenager. Really, did she not get it? Why was she chasing boys like that? But that was me then. Why as an ‘adult’ do I not have more sympathy for myself at that age? It was a part of my process and there is nothing wrong with that.
My writing from more recently is more recognizable. Much of it has been about my spiritual journey and travels both of which comprise very important parts of my life.
My conclusion: no matter what happens I’ll keep writing.