My love for writing began in the 4th grade. I had written a “story” about a young girl who was a middle child who felt lonely, unloved and regularly picked on by her sisters. Of course the names of the characters were only a few letters away from the real life characters they mirrored. At nine years old someone had whispered to me “Sometimes paper is the only one who will listen”.
So I wrote.
Full journal fill shelves in my bedroom holding stories, tears, fears and celebrations of over 20 years of this gals life. Oh, do I have stories, stories that spring up from every bit of my life: communal living, adolescence in a family of all women, sisterhood friendships, growing up a junk mans daughter, single motherhood, gypsy musings and cinderella fairy tales. Stories of cancer and health; birth and death; betrayal and championing; devastation and fulfillment.
I know I am a writer.
And so, last year I began searching for a writing community and online courses. I found one that completely spoke to my soul. The introductory poem left me in tears, speaking about “the girls we once were are coming back to us now” and “may our scars remain visible so that we never forget the power we all possess.” This was the community for me. And what I thought was to be an academic writing class with a flair for the creative – was actually a schooling of which I was in desperate need of but had not yet realized.
First, I needed to know I was a writer. I needed to believe that my calling in this life has always been entwined around my hearts original desires; before I knew what deep pain was, before I abandoned my dreams, before life came along and told me I was a just a clown with nothing important to say and no one interested in listening.
Second, I needed to know that I have stories that help, stories that heal, stories that bring hope and stories that just make you laugh for no other reason except: laughter. I needed to know that every word spoken against me in my lifetime was never from anyone else but an enemy who knows exactly what words will cripple me. And that when I hear those words in my head, I face them, call them out and throw them far from me.
Third, I needed to begin living a writers life. A life that intentionally incorporates reading and/or writing into each day because it is in these things that I come alive! And it is in the days that I do not draw them in that I feel a loss and a lack within my spirit. I needed to create a sacred space for writing and begin to give honor to this craft that has once again claimed its space within my heart. And in this space, with a graciousness, I give it room to blossom.
My inner monk, my faith, my spirit have extended their hand to the creative, artistic gypsy within. And just like all things in which I give thanks, I wrote a blessing to glorify Him, from whom all gifts are given.
Let beauty come from the renewing of my mind:
Believing in You is believing in me; All that I am, is all who is within me.
Exfoliate the past, buffing away impurities and releasing them into your living waters
Apply a toner to tighten my boundaries, guarding my heart from doubt and my thoughts from lies
Understanding brings truth, let me seek it above all else
Thankfulness moistening my soul, allows me to nourish the dry, cracked wounds
Youthful zeal dances around me, as I defy age with the adventure of seeking your path
You are beautiful, my Creator, and your beauty is released from within your daughter.
Have you considered that both the hidden and exposed creative within you is a gift that has yet to be received and even more importantly, unwrapped? If you are looking for a community of writers and artists who are discovering greater ways to live out faith and art then look into The Story Unfolding. If this interests you, also consider the Story Sessions Community, we are a loving, empathetic band of gypsies who champion each other in all things writing and art. Join the exchange or simply enjoy the art!