Earlier this week I had the privilege of reading some poetry shared with me by another writer. I love reading people's words, the way they form them around an emotion or an experience to tell a story. This fellow writer kept making comments about them not really being a writer, and their words were just...words. Reader, those words had feeling behind them, within them and swirling around them. I told them so and assured them multiple times they were indeed a writer. I encouraged them to keep writing and share when comfortable. 

As with anything in life, writing is a bit of a journey. We come across obstacles, distractions, and change. The struggle is real, and in my belief through the struggle, we find more of ourselves. I know it isn't all struggle (let's be honest with ourselves, writing can be a head banging, shin kicking roller coaster of a time), the sun shines and the obstacles can be overcome. Every single person that writes started somewhere. Not one was perfect right out of the gate (sorry, but it is true), in fact perfection isn't something we should be striving for but striving for authenticity. Who we are, how we became and are still becoming... our authentic self. When we share the true pieces of ourselves, however that may look, it rings true and is felt. 

So, listen, during the struggles and the sunshine, remember to breathe and not just recognize but appreciate the journey. Believe in yourself, be yourself and above all... Keep writing.

I sit and stare. Blank page with pen in hand, I wait. I imagine time and space. Love and loss. I wonder about life and its many roads. I utilize experience and allow for mistakes. Darkness and light have ample room each, to put forth their perspective. Doubt creeps in nearly all the time, I press on, and rely on hope.

When it comes to writing my only regret would be not listening to the call of the words when they come. The absolute music they make. It isn't without effort, but neither is it forced. And the melody when it arrives is pure magic, to my heart and soul. 

 

I sat with words these past few days. Some stayed. Not all are for me to keep. 

They don't all come the same way or pace. There are times their arrival is fast and demanding, looking for an immediate home, while others show up one word or snippet at a time. I mull, I chew, I ponder, and... I wait. 

I am patiently impatient when it comes to words finding place. I don't seek perfection in the writing, I don't believe in perfection(a topic for another day perhaps). This doesn't mean I am not hard on myself or demand the words to feel right to me. It means once they find their place and the feeling of them being "right" arrives, the task of how to set them free lays heavy on my mind. 

Sharing the words I write has never been a natural thing for me. I have my doubts and fears of not being accepted, heard or even rejected. I have mentioned community and belonging when it comes to words, and let's not forget the persistence of the words need to be free and felt by others. Sharing still isn't natural to me, but in the sharing of what I have been able to write, I've discovered community and found acceptance. My hope is the words find landing places with(and in) others.

Our morrow does indeed come quick, how will you choose to share your words?

For me, writing is an outlet. A safe space to be free, to dream. It is as essential to me as breathing. Without writing, a large part of myself would simply cease to exist. 

The character of C.S. Lewis in the play Shadowlands by William Nicholson states, "We read to know we're not alone." There is a sense of belonging with the written word. One can sit reading a book, whether devouring it full speed ahead or taking time with each line/page, etc. it doesn't take much to find one's self. 

It is the same with writing. I get a feeling of community an awareness of not only myself but of others as well as the colors of this journey called Life. Maybe we are all searching for meaning and belonging, and with the written word perhaps we can find both.

 

From where does inspiration come? Is it the same for everyone or do we come by inspiration in ways meant only for one? Perhaps it is a little of both.

I have found myself repeating some phrase I (over)heard or saw and later it becomes part of something else as more words form around. Something from a conversation sticks in my mind and a poem is born. Sometimes, while out walking, whether it be near a lake or along a busy city road, things I see bring thoughts and feelings to the surface. Other times I have been reading, lying in the dark, taking a shower, listening to music, driving the back roads and words will enter my mind and I know they need a place to go. It is all things in life(the very marrow of life)- the color, the silence, the sounds, the sorrow or happy, the dark and the light where inspiration waits to be found or as is often the case... pounce.

From the poem "Inspiration" by Henry David Thoreau:

Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid,

The star that guides our mortal course,

Which shows where life's true kernel's laid,

It's wheat's fine flour, and its undying force.

May the Muse guide you and inspiration find you always. May you be open to hearing and feeling it all when it does come.

There is a relationship with words I have felt for as long as I can remember. A silent symbiotic existence I have come to rely upon and appreciate. 

In the silence and solitude of life, I hear them. Within the colorful and happy moments, I observe them. Everywhere and in everything I feel them. They call, I answer. They pull and guide, I follow and learn. They prod and encourage, I test and become. 

It isn't easy or always known where the echo of words will take me, but I know when the words come I must find a way to arrange them. This isn't a calling, but a necessity; for me if no one else. Within and because of words I feel a wholeness, an allowance for being truly myself. They offer a level of solitude I require. And a camaraderie I seek.

Maybe at the end of it all, the only thing to be said is I lived through them and perhaps they found life through me. And if so, it is enough; for me if no one else.