Writing became my first love from the first time I put a pencil to paper. The pages of a new journal call out to me, and a few are waiting to be filled with the documentation of life. For me, writing is life.
In high school, I was blessed to be taught by two strong, beautiful, English teachers. At opposite ends of life, “hot pants’d” Mrs. Johnson encouraged (24) me to write my truths, while elderly southern belle Mrs. Gash (74) taught me to watch for grammatical errors. Both women were perfectionists who encouraged us to write with passion and precision. Under their guidance, I became a writer.
As a cub reporter for the high school paper, I was always looking for new topics for human interest stories. One week, we took a student around the campus in a wheelchair to find obstacles be in their way. Throughout four years, we memorialized the life of Central Union High School students. To this day, I still enjoy digging out ancient copies from time to time to remember the fun we had in school.
Throughout my 20’s, while raising two little boys, I lost my words. Overwhelmed by the life of a mom, every evening before sleep I fell into the words of others. Books took me to places I only dreamed about. Through all my reading, thoughts of someday writing my own book would run through my head.
In 1996, elementary teaching provided the perfect platform for growing new writers. As we wrote, there were days my kiddos would beg to stay in at recess because they were in the middle of finding their own words. We wrote, shared, critiqued, revised, and shared again. Through them, my love of words and the written language for purpose.
Almost five years ago, words again became very important in my life. Too young to become an unprepared widow, life became silent. In the middle of Covid, while moving to a brand new town, I talked very little each week with the quarantine in full swing. Neighborhoods were empty, while people I hadn’t met hid inside to avoid the deadly virus. Some weeks, the only one I talked to was Oliver, and sadly, he wasn’t very good at holding a conversation.
One September morning I woke up to the idea of writing a blog to help other widows. It was such a detailed vision that Grievinggardener.com was up and running in a few hours. Since September 24, 2020, there have been few days that I haven’t written or spent time considering future topics.
Through words, a shattered world started to heal. Writing gave me a reason to wake up before the sun to make contact with the universe. My readers let me know someone out there was checking to make sure everything was okay. To this date, if I don’t write for a day or two, I can be sure someone will call to make sure I’m alright.
Written words.
Beauty. Creativity. Reason for being. Sharing. Venting. Dreaming.
Yes-sir-ee.
Writing is Life for me.
Whatever you do today, consider documenting your daily activities. Then, add anything nice that might’ve occurred. If you perform a Random Act of Kindness to another, write about it. Every day, write down three things for which you’re grateful. Write about your plants. Tell a story about your dog or cat. Write from their point of view. Write about anything you like. Just write.
Give it a week.
You might discover Writing is Life for you, too!
More tomorrow.