July 2008 Archives

THERE are the essentials we carry with us when we step out of the house -- wallet, keys, cell phone, pocket tissues, make-up kit, MP3 player... These may be things we need to go about our daily activities, to keep in touch with family throughout the day. Then there are those things in our bags and pockets that we carry with us because they make us feel better, happier. It could be a keychain of sentimental value, wallet-sized pictures of your family, a toy, a special someone's card. Sometimes they're just in our pockets, and we are calmer just knowing we have these special things with us. Sometimes we actively turn to them when we need a picker-upper. A bad day at work could be made a little easier when we gaze at a picture of our children's goofy grins. Instant meditation and calmness all in our pockets. I carry with me a prayer printed on 2"x2" craft paper. It is a prayer my Mom shared with me. I whip the prayer out of my wallet when I am in need of guidance or when I am thankful. It has made me feel so much better on many occasions. "I am serene because I know You love me. Because You love me, nothing can move me from my peace. Because You love me, I am as one to whom all good has come." Having something you can easily turn to when in need of serenity is a good thing. Sometimes, the people we turn to when we need a picker-upper may not be immediately there. Or there are times we don't want to talk to anyone. We just want to keep quiet, hold on to something special, hoping that by osmosis or some special power the happiness we associate with these sentimental items flow through us. That's not such a bad thing. Sometimes we need that immediately accessible and tangible reminder that things will be better, that we will feel better and get that good, happy feeling we hope for. Given that, aren't these pocket-sized mementos essentials too? :) What happy things fill your pockets?

WRITING has always been a cathartic experience for me. It started when I was about seven. I was extremely shy and did not take to making new friends easily. Alone time was wonderful to me -- I could draw in my little corner without interruption, daydream about being a doctor or actress while I gazed out our living room window. Because I didn't talk much, there were a lot of emotions unexpressed within me. Drawings didn't cut it. So I turned to words. There were blank sheets of paper before me that one day. I took a pen and began writing. Days passed and I filled many sheets of papers with poems and illustrated stories. My Mom delighted in my new hobby and brought home scratch paper from work. I filled the papers with short stories, haikus, limericks. I felt free. How did a 7-year-old find freedom in words? My parents regaled me with stories from their childhood, fairy tales and stories they made up themselves. By example, they taught me the beauty of reading and how it's a fantastic playground for the imagination. Our household help shared stories of the provinces they came from. My younger sisters and I played a lot of pretend with our Barbie dolls. There were so many stories all around me. I wanted to create my own. I wrote about butterflies and fairies, little sisters, a guy eating the buttons of his shirt. I wrote and wrote and wrote. It felt good seeing my childlike daydreams come to life in words. As I grew older, I came face to face with teenage angst. Ah, the teenage years provide such fodder for writing! Poems and stories had a mix of richer themes: the angry frustration of not being understood by anyone, the exhilaration of first love, the pain of having your heart broken the first time, the world-shattering betrayal of friends, the incomparable joy of sharing secrets with trusted ones... It was a rollercoaster of themes. I had turned to diaries at this point. Gone were the days of writing on my Mom's scratch paper. There were secrets in my writing now, and to share them with my family was too embarrassing. Why write? I write to release my thoughts, my emotions. I am much better at the written word than I am with the spoken one. When I speak, I stutter and stumble on my own words. But when I write, everything flows with more truth and beauty. I am in love with the written word. If I don't write in one day, I go nuts. Writing can come in the form of a blog entry, a little quip or a poem. I have to write. I have to let my thoughts out. I have to let the stories out. There may or may not be people who read them, but I have to write. It is my release. It is my therapy. In writing, I have connected with others. In writing, I have come to help others. It is both a passion and a means to actualize my personal mission: to inspire and help others. Writing has helped me release so many bottled-up thoughts and emotions; perhaps I can help inspire others with some of the things I write. I love to write. And for as long as there are words, my ode to writing will never end.