I did not choose writing. Writing chose me. I first began to recognize this as a little girl. I penned a neighborhood newspaper to circulate in my neighborhood. Local happenings like who had a new pet, who was selling lemonade, when there would be a carnival/cook-out on the street. It just felt right…to write.
I remember entering a poetry contest when in third grade. It was sponsored by a local religious organization. I wrote about nature and how it is God’s gift to us, one of the ways His loving kindness is expressed so wondrously to us. The poem won.
I was a high school freshman when Bobby Kennedy was assassinated. I was so impacted that I had to write a passionate article about it. My mother was so supportive of me. She told others that I wrote what many people felt but could not express. I submitted it to our local newspaper, The Watertown Daily Times, for publication.
I have always given gifts of poems to commemorate birthdays, deaths, births, weddings, Christmas and other life events. It just seemed like the most amazing thing to do because it was so personal. I was commissioned to write poems for my high school yearbook. That was a great honor. I felt like a real writer.
But the poems, stories and later the books always chose me. I was aware their source was not of me. I was invited to participate with them, to facilitate them.. They were greater than I. They came through me when I said yes. I was honored to be given the opportunity to give them expression.
I sense Heaven’s pleasure when I write. Whether it be in pain, anguish, grief, joy, wonder, breathless awe… I write. Sometimes I carry it inside, gestating for a long time, unable to deliver it until the right time…the write time. Other times, the creative flow arrives unannounced. I grab a napkin or paper bag to capture what begins to pulse through me at that moment. One learns to be ready for these almost supernatural moments of creative release.
A few moments ago, I sat down to write this because I knew I had to write. I asked God to release something of words through me. So here they are, the living words that I requested. But they are incomplete until you read them, receive them, are inspired by them and together we participate with them.
I didn’t choose writing. It chose me. It is a living creature far greater than I. I am always so honored when a story, a poem, a prayer asks to be written. And I am amazingly grateful that you are here … reading it.
Thank you.
