Why Do I Write?

Why do I write? What is this in me that compels me to pick up a pen and put it to paper. And it must be pen to paper. Keyboards do not connect for me. No, It must be a pen and beautiful paper.

What is this? Whose voice? Whose words? Where does it come from and why now? No answer surfaces, just the pen in my hand writing these words on paper. Whose voice are you? I wonder.

Sometimes I feel like you are the voice of the wounded child in me who needs her story to be told. Her story of pain and sorrow for feeling unloved and condemned for being alive. At other times you are the voice of the joyful magical child filled with the awe and wonder of the universe. So excited to be alive and part of its mystery.

Am I also the voice of the young maiden whose heart and soul is filled with the intoxicating feeling of first love? That wondrous experience of being in love with all its magic and angst that it entails. The kindergarten of what love’s life journey will be. I believe so.

I can hear the voice of the young grieving widow who still comes through occasionally who needs me to know that the scars of the harsh initiation into single-parenthood and bread winner still feel raw at times. How the pain rises especially on the firsts that my daughter celebrates without her father. A father there to cherish her in the way only a father can. Her first day at school, her first date, her first graduation, her first solo trip to Europe and many more unshared firsts. How sad and alone I felt at those times.

Then there is the voice of the young woman, the teacher, the therapist, and the learner. The one who had to overcome all hurdles in the early days and joined the cause. Who burned her bra and stood up for inequality. The young woman who had to pay double the down payment on her house because she was a woman and knew it was so unfair. At times is it the voice of the woman who, in spite of the challenges, built a career and accomplished an international reputation for excellence in her field and still wonders how she did it.

The voice of the friend comes through load and clear. The one who has nurtured friendships that are the treasures of my life. Old friendships and new friendships scattered throughout the world that are only a moment away in my heart. This is the voice that speaks clear about the value of connection.

There is the voice of the woman who was able to meet the challenge of breast cancer and saw it as a gift for the growth I required to move to the next phase of my life. I felt I was fired in the kiln of life in those months and I grew up spiritually.

So why do I write? The young crone in me knows I must speak for all of these voices and those that are still emerging in me. They come through the pen I hold as it moves across the paper and I must tell their stories. They are the essence of my wisdom and grace. I humbly embrace the magnificence of them all and I honour them by sharing their voices with you from time to time.

That is why I write.