As an avid reader, it stands to reason that I would also be a lover of words and the crafting and creativity that surround them. I’ve always dabbled a bit in writing, but as with many things in my life, there was no freedom there. I was afraid of where the words may go once they were released. Words tend to take on a life of their own once they are set free to fly.
I’m not a talker. I’d rather listen, unless it’s to whining. I’m allergic to whining. Because I’m quiet, and not terribly articulate (I blame it on too many conversations with people under 10), people assume I don’t have much to say. But on the inside, I am poetry. I am prose. I am a story, written before I ever left the womb.
The words were buried deep beneath the thoughts, feeling and sympathies that first gave rise to them. I could feel them fluttering there, cocooned, waiting. They were waiting for permission, for courage, for affirmation. But when a thing is ready for freedom, when it can’t be contained any longer and it wants to fly, well, sometimes you just need to set it free. I began to set the words free in journals, then in this sweet space, and now a few other places too. Mostly they look like ordinary white moths flickering around the porch light, but occasionally I’ll find some that shimmer and glow, shot through with a splash of color.
It is good, oh so good, to set things free. What do you feel fluttering in your chest? What wants to take flight? It might not look pretty yet, but it will be free, and freedom holds a beauty all it’s own.
