When I was a little girl, just old enough to read, write and express my little-person thoughts, I loved capturing everything I could on paper. To record my life as it happened. To describe moments in time, feelings close to my heart, and general ideas about the bigger world out there. I wrote when I felt inspired, and for a curious little girl, there was never a shortage of inspiration.
Looking back, I (and some others) might even describe myself as peculiar. My sister caught me once in the middle of a conversation. I was talking to running water. She thought it was very strange behavior, and since I didn't know how to explain it so she would think otherwise, I let her believe I was a little strange, or peculiar. I suppose some children grow up talking to imaginary friends. I grew up talking to elements of nature.
For many years, one of my favorite confidantes was an oak tree that grew in our backyard. I would tell the oak tree about my fears and sadness, and magically, they would be carried away in the wind. Almost every night, for as long as I can remember, I sat by my window and said good night to my friend. I didn't think I was acting strange. I was just fascinated by nature and the cosmos. I was inspired. I still am and always will be.
Over the years, the conversations have grown fewer and quieter. We moved and I lost my spot by the window, including my beloved oak tree. I adopted a new backyard and a new window to the world. I found new inspirations in the classroom and in literature - in the poetic words of others. I discovered that ethereal wonders are limitless and can span many worlds. I got lost in my dreams at night and reveled in my waking dreams.
I write because it makes me happy. It is my safe place and one of my creative outlets. In some ways, it is also my connection to the bigger world. Writing becomes a conversation born from daily inspiration, so regardless of where I am in life, I feel compelled to look up to the sky, say a prayer to the moon and listen for a voice greater than my own.
