I’ve always had dreams of writing.
I recall a personal conversation I had with myself as a teen. In that conversation, I promised myself I would some day have at least one piece published. I didn’t care if it was a column, an article, a poem, a novel or a short story. I just wanted to be published somewhere, at least once, before I said goodbye to this life.
I wrote a great deal of poetry in my teens and early twenties. I had notebooks and folders filled with it.
I was really feeling my poetic vibe. It felt good. Fulfilling. Meaningful.
I was a gifted writer. I don’t say that to be vain or to lay claim to any title of being the best. I say it because I see it now…I certainly did not see it then.
Foolishly, I abandoned my gifts. Maybe because I didn’t realize them. Maybe, I didn’t believe in them. Maybe, I wasn’t mature enough. Or perhaps I had no real guidance since I insisted on keeping my talents secret. Very few people knew that I loved writing. Not sharing my personal goals and dreams meant there was no one to hold me accountable making it that much easier to lie to myself. And that made it all the more easier to throw away my earlier work. Yes, I trashed it…ALL of it. For whatever reason, I thought it no longer served me. But, in reality, I was just resisting the me I was meant to become.
Just the other day, I stumbled across an old poem I wrote about 17 years ago. Of all my older work, it is the only one that remains. The timing of this discovery is very interesting, as I am embarking on this new phase of my writing journey…quite telling.
All those years ago, during casual conversation with co-workers, I recall hesitantly revealing that I had a love for writing, and writing poetry, in particular. Now I must say, they didn’t pick up on my hesitation. I covered it with confidence rather well. But inside, I was shaking. A guy in the group didn’t believe me, and he challenged me with the following words:
Prove it. Write something, right now. Write something sweet.
He was determined to see proof of my supposed writing prowess before our shift was over. I agreed. And, with confidence and ease, I penned this poem entitled “Something Sweet,” because, well, he asked for it.
Sitting here by the window,
gazing out upon the bitter rain,
thoughts of him run through my mind
again, and yet again
Reminiscing on the heartache,
re-experiencing all the pain,
a river streaming down my face,
in sync with the bitter rain
piercing existence of fears,
but wait a minute, something sweet,
the taste of my gentle tears.
Many years and many paths later, I rediscovered my passion for writing. But initially, I didn’t fully immerse myself in it.
I began writing professionally 4 years ago. I accomplished the goal that I once whispered to myself as a teen all alone in my bedroom. I’ve had columns and articles published in various magazines and publications, both locally and nationally. But, I only allowed myself to go so far. Until now, that is.
I finally see that my gifting and purpose has been here all along. I’ve learned that taking alternate routes and detours along your journey cannot keep you from what you are purposed to do. And so, I will write the book that has written itself over and over again in mind. The one that is screaming to get out, crying to be released.
I am finally where I am supposed to be…I finally figured it out. My adventurous and colorful journey has brought me full circle. It has led me back to the birthplace of my dream…the dream that has always been there.
…I Guess I Always Knew.