Sometimes people ask me after reading one of my blogs if I'm ok. My answer is always "yes, but I write for real stuff."
My "for real" words sometimes are sad; other times they are thoughts strung together over the course of time, that hold meaning only for me. My writings are rarely funny, because let's face it, I just am not a funny person, even if I try. But many times, the words I sketch down here are from the many life lessons I am learning. My words are a window into my soul.
As I crack open that window, it's frightening at times who could be looking inside. But, I write to understand and process my thoughts as much as I do for others to sit and read what I have to say.
To be honest, I don't really know how many people still stick with me through my blogs. To be honest, I often times consider quitting it altogether. I can write on my own, after all. I don't have to share my thoughts for anyone or everyone (or no one??) to read. But somehow, I find putting them here therapeutic.
I love writing as much as I love running . Many times during my runs I think of my best writings. It's a part of me. They go together as much as my heartbeat goes with my blood flow. It all courses through my veins.
My words may have an impact on someone, or perhaps no one. It really doesn't matter. Because it's for me. I want my words to have a lasting impact somehow, but if they shape me into a better woman, then they count for something.
I mentioned last week that I had found some of my mom's old writings. Those penned words on paper were a beautiful gift to unwrap. Reading these long-ago written words have been like hearing my mom's encouraging voice over a cup of coffee all over again. I have found wisdom in her silly poems. That was my mom: silly, but full of wisdom. Always laughing. Forever encouraging. And these last few weeks, when I most feel like I could use a giant hug from my mom, her words have wrapped themselves around me like a comfortable "keep going" conversation she was known to have with me so often.
Here is a poem I found that mom wrote when she was in the 8th grade. (Oddly enough, the age my daughter now is.) It's simple... but for me, profound. And it's all about why authors matter.
Please note, I do not share her words or even my "for real" words so anyone will tell me to keep going or to keep writing or anything along those lines. I just share because , well, quite honestly, that's just what I do. So... here is what my mom had to say , and quite honestly, what I could hear her telling me today if I were to be sharing about my writings with her.....
Authors, by Linda (Nelson) Ferguson
There are many authors all over the world,
One for every flag unfurled.
Books to read, and poems to recite,
Are some of the things that authors write.
Some authors while living earned lots of fame,
While other great authors, just the same,
Had to wait until they were dead
before any of their books were even read.
Any author, no matter how wise,
no matter how famous or to what height they rise,
Are great, for they've given all of their might
To their greatest gift, of being able to write.
All of their books that you've ever read
Would have taken much longer if they had to be said.
I think that each author, no matter how small
Should be greatly appreciated by one and by all.
Little did my mom know all those years ago, how much I would appreciate those words today. Little did my mom know that she would one day, in her own way, become that author whose words would be read and held onto with heartfelt depth after she was gone.
And so I continue to write...
When I am sad
When I am frustrated
When I have a victory
When I learn through defeat.
About the little moments in life that bring laughter
About the ridiculous runs I have, or lack thereof.
I write for me. Because it's part of me. And that's the only reason I really need.