Some people like to write–it is a fun thing to do, on the list of fun things they like to do.

Others need to do so. They get antsy, they fidget, they do not feel ‘right’ until they get the words hammering again their skulls out on paper (or a screen.)

I’m not in either camp. But I’m not a writer; I’m a teacher, who does have the ability to string a few syllables together and pat myself on the shoulder. I do not get a medal for that common skill, as I’m only one of the legions who can write a coherent sentence.

Yet…yet…writing can be a tool that heals and soothes. It can even repair the cracks and fissures we get etched on our souls.

Sometimes, we need a reason to embrace writing as a tool of survival. Similar to how a peony needs ants crawling along it, to let it know it is time to bloom


In my case, like many, it was a life-changing event that pushed me to think of how writing could be more than fun or a diversion and become transformative, able to move me from one painful state into a solid better one.

Years ago, it was a strange & bad romance that made me question just what was going on with me. I wrote anonymously, made a few digital friends and found clarity.

Then suddenly -as He often does with everyone- Thanatos visited me and… well, I didn’t know exactly what to do. I did know how to lay on the floor and press my forehead onto the shiny hardwood floor, hoping it would mitigate the pain was hauling around. I did know how to scream, how to shed tears until everything tasted and smelled of salt.

I did not know that one day, my fingers would be used for more than wiping my cheeks dry.  That they would grab letters, push them into shapes and those shapes would become strong enough to plug the gap in my chest where my heart is.

99% of that writing as healing was done on paper and not shared with others. I would burn a notebook after a while, making it a mandala of sorts.

It helped.

Now, I can write about other things, be they important or trivial. And in that, I keep healing, keep on filling the cracks.

I’m blooming now, so to speak.





Seeds sprouting

Scott Bauer / Photo courtesy of USDA Natural Resources Conservation Service.

I dream of them. Seeds bursting open, green tendrils snaking forth, wrapping around my fingers, urging me to write.

Waking up, I look at my hands, wondering why they feel like they are still bound yet I do not see anything but my skin, still flushed and creased from my fights with my pillows.

To manage the growth of my garden, I must honor the rhythms that Nature is drumming onto me, via the wind, the rain and the sun.

If only Time was so agreeable. I find myself tugging on the robes of Chronos, telling him to just pause, stand still and give me a few more minutes, just a few!

He looks over his shoulder and laughs. “I’m Chronos, he says merrily, with a deep baritone. “You might want to talk to Kairos and see if he can do something for you!”

I’m heeding his advice. After all, who can argue with Time?