What would life be if I weren’t able to write about it? So many things to see and think about, so many conflicting emotions in one day’s time, lots of beauty, comments from others, questions about why people or things are as they are–I’d probably be like a boiling pot–I’d spill right over the edge, if I couldn’t write about them.
This morning, for instance–the maple in front of the window is a bit more orange and yellow each time I look at it. The sun throws long tree shadows across my neighbor’s lawn, my grass is starting to wear its most colorful carpet, and I’ve talked with someone about carting off fallen branches. Any of those things would fit right in with a story and probably, they have, at some point or other.
With all the sensory perceptions I absorb in one day, they just have to find an outlet. So, I write about them. My journals are full of these things.
How about you? This is a great time to pick up a pen or sit at the computer and talk about daily happenings as you perceive them. Perhaps, you already do that. It’s quite satisfying to travel the road of life with pen in hand.
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