Words. Language. Life.

When I was a little girl I was a writer. Words- those I read and those I wrote- shaped my youth, my sense of self. By fourth grade I was writing poetry and penning complicated stories (starring me and my friends) full of mystery, drama, and sometimes romance too. When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, my unhesitating response was that I wanted to be a writer. Of course. What else could I have said?

Life got in my way. One boyfriend, and then another. High school and college classes where it was all I could do to finish the assigned readings and writing, let alone write the kinds of things that meant something to me. Parties, part-time jobs, and road trips further conspired to keep me from the very words that used to be at the core of my identity. I was no longer a writer- just someone who used to write. A husband, two children, and a job teaching middle school English ended that childhood dream- that childhood assumption- that some day other people would read the words I wrote.

Or so I thought.

One of the most powerful lessons of my summer adventure was how quickly life can change. I learned a wealth of information, was exposed to foreign ideas, participated in conversation and debate about what it means to be human, and what it means to live life to its fullest potential. There are dozens of cliches out there- Life turns on a dime. Take nothing for granted. Live every day as though it were your last. I no longer want routine, inertia, and indecision to shape my days. I want to wake up every morning enthusiastic about the hours awaiting me- not exhausted before I even open my eyes. I want to do the things that make me feel the most alive- the most me.  I want to write. 

Maybe it's just a little blog that no one will even read. I'm okay with that, for now. Modest goals are a good starting point, and just reminding myself of the power of words and language is enough.  Who knows? Maybe they'll even lead me back to me.