Why I Write

I have been thinking about why I write. Every day, always in the mornings and often at night. I think there are several reasons.

First, the page is the witness to the circuitous route I have chosen to take, and the words upon it my narrator.

Second, it allows me to hold feelings and events, some joyful and some tragic, up to the light and to explore them.

Third, it is an opportunity to steep myself in memories, to relive them and to change the ending if I feel like it.

Fourth, it’s both a mirror and a thermometer. In the reading and rereading, it tells me how I’m doing.

Fifth, it’s a room that echoes with my laughter, mostly at myself as I fumble about and need to retrace my steps, but quite often these days at the absurdity of the world around me.

Sixth, it provides me with a method to wrestle to the ground the dilemmas, both imagined and those real ones that sometimes creep up behind you and say boo, and to see behind the mask.

Seventh, to sing praises with gratitude for those unsung who have patched my skinned knee, kissed my forehead, and told me it would be alright.

Eighth, to cherish the sacred I find sitting in stillness, centering, and resting on the wisdom of the oneness of all beings.

Ninth, when the moment moves me, when I am pulled and pushed by beauty, the sun filtering through the filigree of the treetops, I am compelled to capture it. And since my attempts at sketching can be found in the wastebasket, I am left to capture those moments in letters upon the page.

And last, because there is a possibility that the tears and laughter on the page might touch you, holding you in a bear hug so tight it leaves you breathless or cradling you tenderly in its arms until you know that you are finally safe.