In my harshest seasons, I’ve returned from the colorless world of heartache by forcing myself to look hard, for a long time, at a single wondrous thing – the crimson umbrella of a weeping plum outside my bedroom window, my aging uncle in love (the first – last time), the ghost that haunts the surface of the moon.
I’ve become an expert at learning to be in love with my life again. Like a stroke survivor relearning to walk, I have taught myself joy, over and over again.
After many years reprieve, I returned home to writing in 2000 when a dear friend gave me a pen and a journal (and for a moment, I wondered what I might say). Now, I write. I suppose I would classify myself as a lyricist since I don’t lose sleep to the task masters of rhyme, meter, count or form. I simply write. Always (or at least for the last 12 years), words find me and I let them.
I’m fairly certain that I’ve never created a word (except for maybe whatchoodoin or alottabit). I am no more than a conduit between the place where the words were formed and the place where they were meant to be (you). If you read and gain nothing in the experience, it’s likely not an indicator of either my ability to write or yours to comprehend. It quite simply means the words weren’t come for you.
I am a moderator for the writer’s site – www.writing.com, and founder of an international group of women writers, The Circle of Sisters. Writing.com is a community of approximately 25,000 writers and artists. Three time winner for Best Romantic Prose, and 2012 Winner for Best Free Verse.
There are roads we choose, and others that seem to choose us. With faith, wisdom, and a little luck, we get to the place we’re meant to be. I’ve learned that what looks like a dead-end is, in fact, the universe pointing us in a new direction.
Often, it means creating a path where none existed before.
Sometimes that’s as hard as starting over. Other times, it’s as easy as letting go.