I used to love writing. Short stories, poems, essays, you name it and I loved writing it. I even liked writing papers in high school. Writing was my passion. I could spend hours laboring over the words as I put pen to page, but it would seem like minutes. It brought great joy and a wonderful sense of accomplishment every time I finished a work.
Somewhere along the way, my love of writing took a back seat to the other loves in my life. My husband and my children simply came first, and as a young wife and mother, I always found the time and energy for writing in short supply. I occasionally looked in the rear view mirror to catch a glimpse of my neglected love, feeling apologetic and longing to spend time with it. Eventually. I simply quit looking in the mirror; it was just easier that way. And over time I forgot all about my love and moved it from the backseat to the trunk, to be lost in a dark cavern with other abandoned activities and ideas.
Recently, as I was going through all of the stuff that makes up my life, simplifying and putting things in order, something remarkable happened. I found my love again! Writing this blog, that I had intended to use to keep me accountable on my minimalist journey, has become the spark to rekindle something I had almost forgotten about. It is so exciting to sit down and record my thoughts, my musings and the silly things that happen in my life once more.
I am also enjoying the return of my writer’s eyes. I think people who love to write view the world a little differently. I seem to pay more attention to what’s happening around me, to find the hidden lessons or discover secret beauty. These are things I have been overlooking for years. I feel a little like Dorothy Gale when she steps out of the black and white farmhouse into the Technicolor world of OZ. Sounds, sights and smells are no longer just bits and pieces of my reality; they are all players in a grand story that is just waiting to be told.