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What a privilege it is to have
finally discovered the awesome world of words. By
accident I found out that the anecdote for life is to
write.
Michelangelo's statement regarding his greatest
masterpiece of young Israelite King David, is known
to have said, "David was inside the stone waiting to
be carved out." I think of writing in this way. The
book is already there, a living breathing life waiting
on experience to be written and polished.
It's not what happened, it's what you make of what
happened. That's where the writing comes in. As
the unique individualization of character displays
itself on the pages it reflects perhaps nothing new
necessarily-- but is intriguing because it's born with
it's own special fingerprint.
I didn't discover the freedom of writing. Writing
found me and freedom followed. I was in the
trenches of hospital corridors in the middle of the
night witnessing reality as a nurse in the Emergency
Room. We all find our way to cope and if we don't,
we struggle to keep our sanity in the brink of life and
death. As if death were nothing and life had no
meaning. If we don't say it out loud to ourselves at
some point, we might be thinking it.
Searching for significance wasn't found because it
was never lost. It's been right in front of my face the
whole time. An empty page, vacant and hungry for
life.
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