One of the things that I would really love to start doing this year is to write more. I have been lazy with writing, or perhaps impatient. I sometimes stare into a blank word document, then I type a word, a sentence. Pause. Think. And then I delete it and forget about whatever it is I want to say or express.I could not remember completely when I started to have this fascination to writing. It could be because of Sweet Valley Twins books I read when I was in the 6th grade, or the deplumated Archie Comic Books I managed to read to kill time on summer vacations. Or, it probably started before all that, with Story Parade, a book my father gave me, which was apparently given to him from his boss.
When you were young, you don't really worry if the things you like would bring you food one day. You just do what you want to do because you love it. There's that passion, the heart of it all. And the coming years would either light it up, or flicker it down. It sometimes depends on opportunities, or perseverance...or some strokes of luck.
I guess for me, I write because I know I'm happy when my hand touches the pen and the scribbling, the forming of words to sentences like combined colors from a painting to express beauty, challenges hope that my poem, or story, or essay, would express something that I have deep in me.
But I don't always have the time in the world to write. In fact, my passion for writing now seems to be an idea in the head that I would love to go when I have the time to spare. Sometimes, I would think of an idea, or a line, and then my busyness gets the better of me and before I knew it, the idea is gone forever.
Writing needs a close contact with the heart within, and the diligence to write it down before it leaves the brain. Yet for me now, I don't have that luxury of time, or the persevering spirit to journal every thought.
Life gets in the way, always.
When I was young, writing was a passion that I held dearly, like a precious ring that I wear with me all the time. I opened myself to it, sharpened it by the dancing of my pencil on paper.
Then the years passed by, I get destructed by responsibilities. An idea from the wind would whispher itself to my ears but my attention is upon a Chinese student who is carefully minding his use of a "his" and "her."
And so the idea from the wind flew back, unnoticed and unformed.
How many of those ideas have I wasted? How many of them have I allowed to go back to the wind, not even minding their sweet whispers, or the inspiration they may relate to me.
So this year, Lord, I hope to write more. And may I be kind to the whisper from that wind that would visit me time and again. And may I open myself to it. For love and passion.
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