Why I Write

When I write, I feel a flow from my heart to my fingertips – my heart expressing itself on the page. What wants to be known? revealed? said?

Sometimes my heart wants to share the joy its feeling, like when I wrote a story about our dog Cally, a black lab who joined our family in 1997 as an eight-week-old puppy. The memory of her sings in my heart.  As I wrote about her, tears welled up in my eyes. I could feel her floppy black velvety ears between my fingers. I laughed as I wrote about her running errands with me, of how she would jump into the back seat of the car, settle in, and nap the entire time. I could feel her sad brown eyes looking at me when the cat was sleeping on her bed, only to later find the two of them sleeping together – black cat, black dog, in an acquiescent bundle.

Writing about Cally reminded me how much love I held in my heart for her and how, for sixteen and a half years, she brought an immeasurable amount of joy to our family.

The heart is tender; she holds me in her embrace until I’m ready to write about those things that need to be put onto the page, to relieve the built-up pressure of a life lived. This past year has challenged me as I’ve written about my past, those childhood years that shaped me. My heart wanted me to write about them so she could show me I didn’t have to hold onto those memories any longer. Writing let the flood gates open and the story that had been encompassing me my entire life, flowed out onto the page, allowing me to see it differently. I can feel the release. I can feel a new me emerging.

Through all the writing, I’ve noticed my old self hasn’t gone easily. It’s wanted to hold on, but my heart said, “keep going.” So I did.

The heart, in her wisdom, holds us in our truth. She knows it can be easier to stay with the old familiar ways. But she also knows that something better awaits. She encourages me to write, so I do.