When major events happen in my life, I tend to journal, or write little vignettes. It’s one of the ways I deal with things, that’s how I am wired. The words wind up full of emotion, and they fly right off my fingers without any thought. Then I go back, and I refine them, playing with them until they become a well balanced dance that gives me a sense of satisfaction.
But life has gotten in the way somehow, and it has been months since I have taken the time to write. So when I was drawn to the empty page this week, I felt a little nervous, not quite sure how to start, and very much aware that I was more than rusty.
The page called me each day, and I wrote a few words about my surgery experience. The story didn’t come together; it was choppy–no threat that made sense. What did I want to say? And how was I supposed to communicate my feelings too deep for words? I thought that maybe I had lost my gift.
But I am a writer, so I kept at it. Tonight, it all came together and my story was birthed. My heart feels liberated, and I am gitty, like one feels when spring has sprung. Maybe I should pick up this writing-thing again.


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