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Why I Write

It just started out as a way to talk with my Mom. I'm not sure how she became so deaf, it was as if she had been exposed to jet engine noise, in that she was unable to completely hear out of one ear and the other was so minimal that in all practicality, she was unable to hear out of that one too. It seemed rather sudden in her early seventy's that this occurred, but down the years it progressed significantly. She lived away from me, and yet I wanted to talk with her so often. I would call on the weekends, but she was unable to hear me on the phone. She would greet me, but would have to rely on my Dad to catch her up on our news. So I decided to write, because I knew she not only would read my letters, but she would save them up. I'm not sure how it happened, but somewhere along that time, I would find myself writing to her in poems and stories, attempting to show her a complete picture of my heart. And she loved my writing, she would often tell me, and she saved them all, and even typed them up for me. . .

I realize I don't need a full audience for my voice, if I can write for one, that is enough for me. Perhaps that is why I still am at this blog, because I know of one or two who have found hope and encouragement in what I say. I've come to be appreciative of written words our loved ones leave behind. I have cherished my Dad's journal, old notes from my son, and lost letters of my Mom-in-law that I have found. No matter how modern and technical we get, no matter how e-mail, texting, and "you-tube" progress, the written word will survive, and always live . . .

"If you want your life to be a magnificent story, then begin by realizing that you are the author and everyday you have the opportunity to write a new page."
(VNA calendar, 4/2010)

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