To me, writing is wonderful. Writing is where I want to go when I feel stressed, sad, confused, worried, but it’s also the place I want to go when I feel happy, fulfilled, and at peace.
Writing is to me that place where I always return, no matter where I am in life. It’s the place I might abandon one day, saying that I grew bored, but to which I never fail to return every single time.
A writer once said that writing, to her, was home, and indeed, home it is to me too.
Home is not necessarily a place, though it can be. But even when it is, it’s not about the space in it of itself. It’s not the walls of a house that make it a home. It’s the memories that took place within those walls; the dreams, the hopes, the love, the hate, the happiness, the sadness, and the peace that you’ve felt in that place. All of that is what makes it home.
Home is a state of mind, one where safety takes over, and all the problems from the outside world start to fade. Like drops of rain hitting a glass window and failing to reach the other side, those problems have no power over you once you’re in that place.
Writing is that place to me. Writing is the “what”, and the “where” I come back to time after time, like a child returning to the arms of her mother. However, the experience here is different. Though writing has shaped me, I am the one who also shapes it, each time I sit down to do it. In that, I am both the mother and the child, seeking comfort in one another.
What is your home? 🙂
Get in touch with me! 🙂