Why I Write

I write because I can’t not write.
Because something inside me stirs,
and it needs somewhere to go.

I write to find clarity,
to make sense of the world,
of people,
of myself.

I write to pay attention.
When I journal and look back on my day,
I notice things I missed, 
small treasures that were there all along.

Like the man in the grocery store
helping an elderly woman reach a high shelf,
and I remember there’s still good in the world.
Still kindness. Still grace.

I think about hard moments at work,
when stress and frustration take up all the air.
But then there’s this one small moment
when heart and wisdom meet,
and something opens,
a way forward,
something hopeful.

I remember a lost loved one,
a shared laugh, precious time together.
Then suddenly I’m filled
with the quiet joy of having known them,
of having been loved by them.

I write poems about Sugarite,
about standing among the trees,
and remembering what it feels like
to be truly alive.

I write because gratitude
is like a river running through me,
and writing is how I wade in.

Sometimes I write just to let it out,
to say the hard things,
so they don’t weigh me down.
Once they’re on the page,
I can breathe again,
see things more clearly,
and move forward with kindness,
for myself, for others.

And then I exhale,
and my pen grows quiet,
I realize...
I don’t just write to understand life.
I write to live it more deeply,
To notice what I might otherwise miss 
and to feel it more deeply, 
I write to leave something 
of myself behind,
To love this life a little more
with every word.