One of the things I love about Facebook is that it reminds me of events that my middle-aged (now in my 6th decade) mind sometimes allows to slip through the cracks. I call them my ‘wise woman moments,’ since the older we get, the wiser we can become. I smile with delight at the daily gifts of memes, videos, photos, and articles that folks had sent to me or I had discovered via random meandering. What I particularly enjoy are the blast from the past articles that I have penned. Not an ego thing, but rather a stunning refresher of history that I have lived through. I tell my therapy clients that we have all survived everything that has ever occurred in our lives, because we are here to tell about it.

Many’s the time I have perused articles and blog posts I have written and thought, “Wow, this is good! Who wrote this?” Then I consider others who have read the words that often pour forth without conscious thought, unedited until my fingers lift from the keyboard to rest a spell. Rare writers’ block here; mostly what I call writers’ runs. Perhaps, they too have loved and lost (husband, both parents and a dear friend who became my son’s father figure, among them). Maybe they have survived serious illness (shingles, heart attack and kidney stones here). How about financial challenges, job changes, loss of a home to a natural disaster? Could be that they are learning to love the person in the mirror in the face of human frailty? What if they, like me, realized that the time was NOW to show up, stand up and speak out about what matters most to them, even if they attract disapproval? We all have so much in common.

I am grateful that I was born hardwired to creatively express myself. Reading was a fun activity as I was immersed in words. My parents read to me often and the library up the street was a home away from home as I carted home books each week. Story hour was an anticipated activity as the ‘libary lady’ as I called her when I was young, read to the kids who sat on the carpet at her feet eager to take adventures through the pages she turned.

I began writing in childhood with short stories starting me out and assignments in classes solidifying my skills.  I began journaling in my pre-teens and I still have the dog-eared pages from college days. I fondly look back on the scribbled words, remembering the idealistic young woman I was and sometimes cringing at her choices. Good to know I survived them all too.

These days, my writing is as much for others as it is for me. It is heartening to know that my thoughts are helpful and healing and inspiring to readers. Daily wordsmithing is part of my practice. It is one way I support myself financially and emotionally. It is one thing ‘I can’t NOT do.’ It remains one of my greatest joys and nourishes my soul.

What does that for you?