I write from the old rust colored chair in the corner of my bedroom by the window, where I can watch the sun move over the tops of houses and trees and the where the steam rises from my tea cup like morning prayers.
I write in a leather bound journal that houses a new notebook each time I scribble final words on the last page.
I write on my computer with thoughts flowing faster than my fingers can type, but I like the sound of my fingertips softly tapping the keys, changing single letters into words that create an artistic design, flowing easily from one idea to the next, eventually creating art to share.
I write from my heart the stories that have touched me as I travel on my journey; the people, the places, the sounds and experiences that shape my world. I write about love and friendship, family, illness, heartbreak, women and the man I love, children and laughter and anything that pokes and tugs at my heart and reminds me that I am alive.
I write from past experiences; from poems about childhood friends, to teenage crushes to finding the young girl who was lost in childhood moments of darkness. I write about love, children, and finding God in ordinary moments. I write about a debilitating illness that nearly took my life, and the journey to discover me again.
I write in the present time, about breathing and sitting on the beach letting go of all that does not serve me. I write about the sun coming through the window and the thoughts that dance around in my head. When I write, I am present in my body, and all of me moves in rhythm as the words form on the page.
I write in moments of joy, when words leap out of me, bursting forth in color like the show of fall leaves, in red and orange and gold, in a glorious display that shouts “Life is good.”
I write when tears of sadness fall from my face and run with the ink, blotting out my words, as if that would erase the pain. My pen carries the song of melancholy across the page, leaving a heart rendering piece that even years later still has the ability to bring the familiar wetness and sting to my eyes.
I write in moments of pain, when the screaming shows up in my hand wrapped tightly around a pen, intensely scratching out words across the page in dark deep indentations. It is impossible to write small when angered passion rushes out in bold large letters that don’t fit neatly on the lines.
I write in moments of reflection, looking back on an experience and seeing how much I have grown, or not. I write about who I was, who I long to become, and who I am in the present moment. I write from my center, allowing God’s voice to take form in my own words, reminding me of my own divine likeness and energy.
I write about life, all the light and the dark, the good and the bad, the sad and the happy. I am the words on the page, the object I write about and the experience that changes me. In the moment of writing, I am connected to all through a stream of consciousness that feeds my soul.
The very act of writing gives me life.