Here's what I'm re-reading right now: 84, Charing Cross Road by Helene Hanff and I just began The Almost Moon by Alice Sebold
The other day I wrote about my love for books--the smell of them, the smoothness of the pages and sometimes rougher skin of the cover, the font and shape of the letters--all of it, oh, and the words. Today, I must (because I want to) give a earth-quaking nod to my other love - writing.
My morning pages (which admittedly don't happen sometimes until well past eleven p.m.) is the girfriend who sticks by me no matter what. I don't have to worry about it being good or bad, precise or loose, heart wrenching or cold hearted, breathtaking or breathless. It is what it is. And, like that fabulous friend, it's the best therapist I've discovered so far.
On the page, all life's curiosities and problems, bumps and blips, work themselves out if I stick with it and write to resolution. I can usually go from hurt or craziness to finding peace and the truth in most situations in less than a thousand words. Not bad, huh? On the occasion that I don't, I go back, begin again, and eventually the truth surfaces in a way that has integrity and honesty and clarity--and the solution is always the best for everyone. The fog lifts and I have my 'aha' moment.
I am so grateful for the gift of writing and the fullness it brings into my life. It rounds out the rough edges, makes me look at things differently, and begs the question "what if." Writing makes me want to create, fantasize, think, and wonder.
For those of you who don't write, I hope that there's a passion in your life that brings you the same sense of oneness with with world that writing brings to me...