I never wanted to become a writer. I never really aspired to it. I wanted to become a nurse. Or a healer of some kind. Possibly a Hospice nurse. I thought about that a lot. I am a mother. I am a nurse and a healer. I take care of. I wanted to become a broadcast journalist. I wanted to share the news. I learned to think and type simultaneously when my father, a broadcaster, told me that this was the only way to do it. I would write compositions, term papers, and stories long hand and ask him to type them for me. He quickly gave me my own typewriter and told me I was doing it all wrong, that to think and type simultaneously was the only way I would become a journalist. I changed my mind. I didn’t want to become a journalist. Thinking and typing at the same time was difficult and my muscle memory and my brain reacted against it. But look at me now. I think and type. All the time. It’s my career. My father was right. I am a nurse and a writer. A mother and a healer. I write what intuitively comes to me…words of encouragement and healing.
Although I didn’t realize it at the time, my journey to becoming a writer began when I started typing, playing writer on my new electronic typewriter. I would pretend to write words, long sentences, even paragraphs that were a jumbled mess because thinking and writing at the same time was difficult. But pretending was fun. I was an effervescent child, not quite here. Off in the clouds somewhere. I played writer and became a writer. I’m not sure many people approach their life choice this way, but I typed my way into it and now I can only think and type at the same time. I guess you could say I became what I pretended to be.
Ok. I know this sounds kinda kooky and I don’t mean for it to be. But there’s mysticism in creating oneself. We all do it. We think and become. I want to become the healer and help others understand that their journey is the journey of creating, manifesting, and becoming.
Writing is a tool to teaching. I never thought about being a teacher, but I played at that too as a child. We set up “school” in the basement and took turns playacting teacher, doling out worksheets and lessons, and when it was time to be the student we switched seats. My friends and I loved playing school. I loved the teacher/student way. Looking back, I guess I’m somewhat stymied by it all struggling to understand the writer’s journey. How did I get here and why can’t I shake this complicated existence? I am a nurse, healer, student, teacher. A seeker. And I write to share. There’s no other way. The pieces are coalescing and I am building a bridge on these pilings, something to travel across.