Writing Dreams

Somewhere between the ages of three and four years of age, I taught myself to read.

That’s when I discovered something so magical and extraordinary:
words have power.

Words can take you out of this world and your ordinary existence and take your mind to another place. A place that can be any shape or colour or texture that your mind can dream of.

One day, I finally started school for the first time and there I discovered another extraordinary truth: I could write.

I could write poems and stories and books and anything else I dreamed of.

I could write about the little things in my life and I could also escape into any universe of my choosing.

The very first dream I ever had was of being a writer.

Once I learned how to write I could not be anything else but be a writer.
No matter what I chose to do with that precious gift. Oh and a precious gift it was to me indeed.

Writing to me was as natural as breathing. I couldn’t understand how anyone else could not see that. To write was to create. While other little girls were thrilled with learning how to bake and do other things, I was writing, and writing and writing.

I wrote for me, for school, for any reason at all.

I wrote for girl guides, for my writer’s badge, the only badge I ever cared about.

I wrote about my life, my family, my friends, my loves and lovers and about strangers I met in the street or never met.

I wrote about things and people I created, that existed nowhere else outside of my imagination.

Writing was and is the deepest blessing of my life on a two-fold level.

Because I needed to write for myself, to celebrate the highest ecstatic moments in my life, when I felt like I touched a piece of heaven. And when I consoled myself through the darkest deepest depths of my grief

But when I learned how to write I also wrote for another reason: for an audience.

What a gift it was to share these personal creations of myself with others.

And I have been blessed by that oh so many times.

I was so fortunate to be encouraged to write and share my writing with countless teachers on my path. And by the people in my life. The ones who cared about me and the real me, who enjoyed reading my voice.

Tonight, I saw a movie about a tortured artist who lived through his music, his own art.

And it made me think of that fine artistic thread that has delicately wound its way through my entire life, from childhood to adulthood, that of my own writing.

There have been times in my life when I experienced the worst of writer’s blocks and how I felt about that is simply indescribable. Imagine having your voice silenced, silenced so utterly completely and universally that it makes you forget you ever had such a gift to share.

But today I am lucky.

I am writing, and writing to you, my blog readers, and am happy to share my words with you.

My words are my song and I hope you enjoy listening to this, the music that I make, in this little oasis of mine.

Words, words, words, precious words born out of my dreams.
This is my dream. This is me.

***

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Video Montage: The Flow
Following the flow of the universe, with a photo montage I created. The song is "Twisted Hair" by Robbie Robertson & The Red Road Ensemble, featuring the sublime operatic voice of Sioux singer Bonnie Jo Hunt, who sings over the sound of crickets.
Also posted on youtube:

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