I am a writer. When taxi drivers, here in Cuenca, ask me: “Estás jubilado?” (isn’t that a marvelous word for retired?), I respond: “soy un escritor.”
I am a writer. I have been writing since I left home at 14. Before that, I had no privacy and no awareness, really, of how vital it was for me to put my words – my thoughts and emotions – down on paper. The first poem I wrote speaks to me, still, of that young girl who was terrified of life and aching, always, for a better way.
through infinite space
trying to make contact
but just before,
and just before
but just before loving,
That was written 48 years ago! Somewhere, along the way, like this little chickadee resting on my hand, I found a safe landing place. I learned that the world was not always a scary place and that I could trust that I was safe and protected, even.
Writing, which for many years was my safe place, has become a world beyond my imagining. A world where I am known. By publishing my words, first via blogging, and then actually being published, my world has expanded into a place of acceptance and being celebrated. First, I had to learn to celebrate myself, though, to celebrate that, not only had I survived the terror I grew up with, but to celebrate life, my life, in its entirety.
And then, a funny thing happened. This introverted soul began to be part of a community. A community of bloggers which, in itself, is magical. I will always be thankful to WordPress, for creating their blog-a-day challenge in 2011 and, for the people, the friends – the writers who entered my life as a result.
Life leads us through valleys and mountain peaks and twists around to our place of belonging. I belong, here in Cuenca.
I belong to a wonderful community of writers. A community of people who inspire me, who challenge me with their excellence in writing and who encourage me to share my stories.
And I have stories to share.