How Much It Mattered

I didn't realize, HOW MUCH IT MATTERED--my writing--until I thought my imagination, the need to write, was gone for good. This upset me, so much, though I would not have thought that back in 2010, when I first started this blog(a personal journal)--two months after mom passed away. At that time, it had been an outlet, a way to keep memories of my mom and my childhood alive.

It helped so much, this journal, because in time I could remember mom and laugh, not cry. I could write, create, using an imagination learned by watching my moms pure joy in life. Through this process, unbearable grief became acceptance, acceptance became happiness that she had earned much needed peace and a place in heaven.

It's then, I think, that something happened with that acceptance. I found the imagination, the words I needed so much for inner peace--seemed to have disappeared. I'd stare blankly at the screen--but nothing...nothing was there. So one day, a magical thing happened. My words, my creativity that helped push sadness away, were back!

Through this metamorphosis, I left my dream of graphic design and thoughts of finishing school behind. Instead, I focused on my new goal--which I had discovered--screenwriting. It was a leap of faith, a scary process, but through this growth, my fascination with using one's imagination and the freedom that brought, blossomed!

Then my father passed away February 4, 2013. The sorrow, as I found my dad, after he had passed, was unbearable. Again, as with mom, I turned to writing for solace. And as had been the case, after moms death, again my mind went blank. Again, I realized, just how much it mattered. How much I needed the words to express, to let go of grief.

During this time, nothing helped, as the words were just--GONE. Movies, which I love so much, did not help. My blog--and much apologies to readers--could not keep my mind occupied. For here too, I could think of nothing. The page here, was as blank as the one on my computer. The cursor, blinked and mocked me, just as much.

I am so happy to say that I've started my writing journey again and it has brought me so much joy. Please, any out there who have suffered a loss, as well--try writing in a journal. As each word touches computer screen, paper etc., you'll feel free. Here, your heart and mind can meet, become one. And it is then, each journey, each realization, will bring you the peace you need inside.

Stories From A Letter

The envelope's postmarked 1984. The pages-I take out are dull and yellow with age. Corners are turned up, ink is faded, brown stains dot the pages- like confetti.  The letter folds, are just as crisp, just as lovingly creased, as the day the letter reached it's destination-28 years ago-, at Fort Dix, New Jersey  http://www.army-technology.com/ . I lived there, for four months, that year, and I learned that life was different, for a small town girl, on her first trip away from home.

As I unfold this letter-that I hold- a sentence jumps out a me. Mom asks why haven't I written her back yet?  Why could I have not written, just one line, to let her know how I was doing?  I try to think now, what was the reason, the excuse, for not writing that answering letter, that had meant so much to her-so long ago.  http://books.google.com/ (Letter writing as a social practice/Excuses for not writing a letter.)

As I continue reading,tears well up in my eyes, for I cannot answer that long ago question. She is no longer here, to get the answer.  I struggle to remember if I ever wrote an answer.  And the truth, which makes me feel worse, is that I just don't know. 

What made me neglect to write -in a letter-what was going on for me, at that time?  I remember flashes of things.  Endless training, exercising, studying, training-in preparation-for Uncle Sam's plans for me. Why did I not tell my mom how busy my life was, at that time?  How it was changing so much, and seemed so out of my control?

As I sit here, thinking, I realize, I know the reason why I did not write, more. Or tell my mom more. My very time away from home was filled with worry and responsibility.  I'd never had so much.  And loneliness and a craving for home, which I had been in such a hurry to leave, had filled my every thought.  Knowlege of this, though, I knew would have made her feel worse.

In my haste, to not worry my own mom, I had worried her, endlessly.  I hadn't wanted to mention that I'd made a mistake, and I that I wished I could come back home- again.  Never, would I have mentioned the non-stop flirtation-offers from guys, to visit their rooms- or the girls who got pregnant.

I hadn't wanted her to know that I was miserable.  So silence, kept the worry at bay, unwritten letters, kept me from blurting the truth, from wanting to run to my mom and not live the crazy life, that I then faced, as an adult.

I know now, this page I hold,-filled with stories from a letter-were an attempt from mom to hide pain and worry-she felt herself- and an attempt to tell of happier times. So, times when I did not write, were times of worry, and therefore I could not write letters of such reassurance myself. Nothing that would have reassured a mom, filled with worry for her only daughter.

I carefully fold this letter up. I put it back on top of a pile of such letters, written lovingly, and to reassure a daughter, far from home.  Each letter whispers of bits and pieces of, two separate, yet shared lives, and  thoughts that are over twenty eight years old.  I carefully put the letters away.  I know that each letter will call to me, and when they do, I'll be ready.

It's Called Love

The other day I put my daughter in her car seat so that we could head to art class and  I got such a feeling of love, that it made me grin.  The maternal instinct is strong, stronger than any steel.  It is the supreme power, of a mere mortal, the mom.  I remember years ago my mom told me"I love you all-her kids-in a different way from your dad."  Before I had my daughter -this unknown- this comment left me scratching my head.

But I learned, in time, that the love you feel for your child starts from the time they are but a thought, not yet a being.  We feel that love from the time the concept is born in our minds.  With the growing of that thought, a tickle forms in our stomach, an unknown ache forms in our heart, and we smile at all we see around us.  This in a sense, is the beginning of motherhood.

A test at the doctor-or in my case, a pregnancy test-starts a strong bonding of love, that will last a lifetime.  I rubbed my stomach, and talked to my daughter and listened to music, through my entire pregnancy.  We-my unborn daughter and I-shopped for baby clothes, bought her baby crib, and oohed and ahhed the many items that would eventually fill the little one's room.  This was- the unknown to me, the dance of love- that my mom had told me about, so many years ago.

I can almost hear my mom now, she would have said, "It's Called Love".  It's this driving force that's motivated all that I've done-since my daughter was but a thought in my mind-over nine years ago.  We've gone through sickness-vomiting, diarrhea, burning fever, struggles to eat food, struggles to take medicine, to cut fingernails, to be polite, and each day I'd do it all again, for my goal is for my daughter to be healthy, safe, happy and to enjoy all that God has planned for her life.

Many years ago, my mom told me, that before my twin brother and I were born a bright light appeared outside her bedroom window, she then heard a voice say "You will keep the girl".  My mom never doubted for one minute that this wasn't an angel and she always had faith that I would live. My mom's faith and love in me continued- up until the day she died.

I feel this same faith today, as mom had for me, for I know that God has much in store for my daughter. I feel that same maternal instinct-love strong as steel-which will continue, as moms did for me, until the day I die. I think that love can squeeze our heart -so hard sometimes, that it almost hurts- and as I sit here now I can almost hear my mom's angelic voice whispering...."It's Called Love."