I wrote this several years ago. I was stepping out of a time when migraines were almost a daily occurrence and fitting words together to form a coherent thought was at times challenging. I am thankful that I didn’t give up being . . . me. Thank God those days of constant head pain seem to be left in the rear view mirror.
My words emerge from infancy in the inner depths of my heart. Not that my thoughts are untried or newly propped up on shaky toddling legs. No, they have just been waiting to get out. They shimmer at me from the darkness like clusters of crystals awaiting to be polished and scattered to shine on the page.
Once, I wrote by hand filling pages upon pages of paper with ink. The words seamed together like stitches holding a garment secure. They flowed from my mind with an unforced clarity. Characters took shape, scenes paraded by, and words strung themselves together prettily like pearls on silk thread.
Time has changed my ability to write, type, and in some instances even form the images in my mind. For awhile I gave up, but I feel the tug again. It is an insatiable urge to record my thoughts and arrange them in a meaningful bouquet. Like a mason pulls an image from stone or a potter forms the clay into what it calls to be, so I feel the call of the written word to be released from my ponderings and set free.
How unsettling the bounce of thoughts inside my brain can be. I long to get them out. It is a yearning, a calling, and a choking feeling that cannot be denied any longer. So despite the difficulty of various physical inhibitions, I will persist in heeding their call. The physical ability to write as I once did is gone, but the need to write has never gone away. It has hummed in the background waiting to sing the lead again.