Begin again

On this lazy Sunday afternoon, while Hubby and child rest from the week’s labors, I take this time to recharge: Why do I want to write?

When I told my mother I was abandoning law practice for writing (and teaching), she mourned, “I did not raise you to be a writer.” Writing, for her, was a hobby, something I could do on weekends, on my free time, when I had finished with everything else more important, like earning a living. She thought that I was being too indulgent.
I could not give her–or myself–any easy answers.
Writing connects me to parts of myself buried by deadlines or harassed by daily cares. It shapes thoughts that defy form. I find the words that hide in my heart; by this I relive or grieve moments. My life, sometimes painfully, falls into place. I am a fractal; I need words to find me.
Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: