Writing at Fifty Two

                                Photo by Navi Photography on Unsplash

 I wake, slowly opening my eyes. I sit on the edge of the bed and stretch. Making my way to the kitchen I look forward to my one cup of hot strong coffee. Now with coffee in hand I make my way to my writing chair where I will plop my butt until my words fill the screen. 

As my mind wakes with each sip of coffee the words that come to mind about my writing today fill my head: Love, honesty, sincerity. Then compassion, fulfilling float into my mind, and I wonder who or what I will be writing about today. With a deep breath in , then out, I let those words wash over me. I am a writer. Those words I realize speak my truest self. They will guide me today in my story telling.

Here I sit now fully awake and I realize I am just waking up to my goals, my and my dreams at age fifty two. Words mater. I slowly glide my pen across the page. I prefer to write by hand. Soon my words will be on the page and ready for a reader, but not yet. I must delve deep into my story, its meaning, and all I want to convey. 

Sitting in my chair with my pretty fake diamond pen in hand and my flowery clipboard on my desk I think back to those words and I let my story pour out of my fingers. Mother andwife for years and then divorced and grown kids all flash by my eyes. Now though is my time. My time to write about my life with compassion and truth. I will write about my journey through being a military wife, to single mom, to single and alone. My life trajectory already set before I took my first breath. Here I am, a writer. 

I gaze out my writing room window with my kitty. What does he see, smell, hear? He is starring contently at something I do not see. The birds are chirping loudly. Calls are being sounded back and forth across the yard. It is going to be a great day. There is a chill in the air. Red robbins hop across my backyard searching for spring worms. They know they are safe, my cat stays inside. 

Writing came to me late in life. It can be cathartic for me. I can write out a problem and work it out on the page. I can create characters to share in stories. It allows my thoughts a space to flow. Even at my age, writing has been such a blessing. Now I am going back to just looking outside and watching those beautiful red robins. 

Happy Sunday all,

your story teller/poet

Debbie 

xoxoxo