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Loss of words.

I am often humbled by others' words.  I will hear my children express something so perfectly and uniquely that I rush to another room to write it down.  I read a passage in a book that succinctly describes something in a way that I've not read before and I ensure that I can return to it, time and again to be inspired,

I started to make an effort to write for pleasure over the past few years. It wasn`t something I had done for fun since childhood.  It has indeed been a pleasure. Having writing to turn to has been like having a funnel to catch my gushing, tumbling thoughts, my awareness of language has become heightened and I enjoy reading more.  Writing more has helped both my physical and mental health too. I often walk home or to work composing something in my head.

As much as writing has improved my life, the longer I write, the more aware I am of my limitations.  I admire good writers for their ability to compel the reader to understand another point of view thoroughly, to illustrate a picture so fully that we can see ourselves in a particular setting and to create understanding for an unlikeable characters' point of view, but I personally may never reach that level of skill. Words fail me.

Unexpectedly, opening the writing channel has opened other channels that had been more or less invisible to me before.  I now let myself to see things.  I often am taken off guard by how the light falls through the window onto a piece of cloth or how a discarded toy decorates an otherwise desolate playground.  I also listen more.  I still talk too much, but a little less.  I feel like as much as writing has expanded my life, it has done so indirectly.  It has been my companion, strolling along side me as I let new ways of seeing and hearing take over.
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