Words

Words. They sing. They hurt. They sanctify.
They were man's first immeasurable feat of magic.
-Leo Rosten-

"We create ourselves out of the stories we tell about our lives, stories that impose purpose and meaning on experiences that often seem random and discontinuous. As we scrutinize our own past in the effort to explain ourselves to ourselves, we discover - or invent - consistent motivations, characteristic patterns, fundamental values, a sense of self. Fashioned out of memories, our stories become our identities." - Drew Gilpin Faust

I love these quotes.

So much food for thought.

I started a journal when I was 13. My mother gave it to me after I'd read The Diary of Anne Frank. I guess that's when the spark was kindled, which lit the flame on the candle which shall not be put out.

As an adult, writing the stories of my life has become increasingly important. I've learned the value of keeping the memories in safe storage.

I write for two main reasons. I use it as a way of processing my experiences. What do I mean by 'processing'? The act of writing about an experience allows me to ponder it, interpret it, draw conclusions from it, and, perhaps most significantly, discover meaning in it.

The second reason is perhaps just a extension of the first. I write as a creative outlet. I need creative outlets. Some folks paint. Some talk. Some make pottery. Some act.

I write.

There was a time when my life-framework required a complete overhaul. I had to rebuild myself from the rubble. I had to reconstuct my life experiences and reorganize my interpretations of the past experiences. Those were long, grueling years but they bore fruit.

I now recognize that life is a series of metamorphoses. If I hadn't written about it, I wouldn't have been able to appreciate the threads and weaves in the tapestry that is my life.