Finding the Words

Since I can remember, I have had words in my head. There have always been stories brewing, lines of poetry being composed, or characters tumbling and whirling through my mind, even as I go about my regular, typical day-to-day life. Stories and scenes play themselves out in my mind as I do the dishes, bathe my child, check off items on the never-ending to-do list. The words keep me company as I ride my bike, follow the black line on the bottom of the pool, or run another mile. The world keeps turning and I keep writing in my head. I assumed everyone did this.

I told someone about this once, several years ago, and he just looked at me with an expression of horror. I’m certain that his clinical mind had just diagnosed me with all kinds of psychological ailments. He didn’t understand. Now that I am coming into my own, finding my tribe, I can say to my like-minded friends “last night I dreamed in paintings” or “the words are marching around my mind” and they accept this as a normal part of life. Words and pictures invade their mindspace, too. And because they do, they understand the burning need I feel to get them down on paper, so they are no longer inside of me, demanding a place to be expressed, demanding a venue to be heard.

It’s only lately that I have realized that my ability to write well is a gift-a talent that is uniquely mine. Only I can string the words together to form the story I need to tell, the truth I need to speak. It’s a god-given blessing that I am responsible for: to create, to inform, to make the world better. It’s a way I can leave my mark, a way I can be remembered, a way I can be heard. I believe everyone needs this, and I’m grateful to have found my path while it can still be developed and honed, while I can enjoy it and use it to help others understand me and my place in this world. I'm especially grateful that my words can help her understand her mother more fully. That she can, someday, read why i made some of the choices I did and why our lives are as they are. It's tough to tell a two year old the story of your soul, but one day, she'll need to know it. I can give that to her. Beyond that, I'm happy to have one more place to record my dreams for her, my wishes for her, and how much I love her.

These days, the words are coming to me more fluidly than they ever have. I have learned to keep the words, to hold them gently but firmly, until pen can meet paper and I can capture them permanently. I still have the occasions of writers block, but I’m learning how to coax myself through those. I’m grateful for this. I’m grateful for a life that lends itself to a few stolen moments to write, even though it never feels like enough. I’m grateful for my tribe of creative, authentic people who inspire me to keep writing, because I have a story that needs to be told and truths that need to be heard. And I'm grateful to have enough insight into myself, enough pride in my own story, and enough confidence in my abilities to believe it.