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  • Since I learned to form letters, the page has been my best friend. I could trust it with my secrets and fears, with my dreams and disappointments. It was my only safe place, the one place I could take chances without risk of ridicule. On the page there were no rules. There was nothing I could’t do.

    I never lost my love of language but I think I’ve been a bit of a Peter Pan about writing and the page became my Neverland. The child in me hoarded the gift of writing. I was unwilling to share and like all captured things, words become hollow when they are hidden away and not allowed to grow and change in the minds of others. As I grew older, that gift freely given became a burden. 

    The page was a safe place, because it welcomed me, comforted me, encouraged me. It freed me from the dark, twisted tangle of a forest that was my home. My hidden journals were the only things I felt were mine and so I had to protect them. Whatever I wrote was now tinged by fear, a fear of loss. As time progressed, a child’s loneliness became an adult’s resentment. My fear made me selfish. It turned a gift into a possession. I no longer approached that clean white space as a magic place where anything could happen. Anticipation turned into procrastination. I lost the need to call out who I was. 

    Writing became a serious business. No longer did I quickly abandon what didn’t work in the spontaneity of the moment. What didn’t work was a failure followed by retreats into shame and self-doubt. The price of ownership took a heavy toll.

    Today I write to remember. I write to grow roots where I’m planted. I write to grow wings and soar above all that I know.To withhold my story is not an act of humility. It's selfish. I believe that each of us has a responsibility to add our story to the human record. What ever way we are drawn to tell it, we can be certain that we have also been given the talent and ability to share it. With each story we are reborn, a little wiser, more compassionate, more courageous and inspired. I may not feel comfortable putting myself out there to be judged, critiqued, ignored or laughed at, but that’s my ego. My heart knows that the reason I write is to reach out to others with my life experience and remind myself I am never alone.

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