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Tap tap tap. Tappity tap clickety click. My fingers dance across the keyboard. Most of the letters have been rubbed off from overuse. The world around me fades to black. I am in my office with the invisible walls. The only thing I am aware of is the click of the keyboard and the emerging text on the screen. This is all that matters. This moment when I sit down to write. The story flows from my deep inside me – healing, making sense of it all, creating a permanent reminder of a moment I never want to forget.

Sentence structure, adjectives, similes and paragraph length. They can propel my insatiable passion forward or hinder it. Writer’s block can be like an athlete hitting a wall. Tears of frustration inevitably fall. The stories are in my head begging to come out. My words get stuck. I’m distracted and agitated until the story reworks itself. I sit in front of my trusty old friend with the glowing face and the dam breaks. The story comes out with a piece of my heart woven throughout. This is what I do.

My mom is a talented nurse. It’s what she does. Not only that it’s what she loves. My mom is efficient, kind, and simply amazing. Her service is unmatched. She will stop at nothing to help a patient feel more comfortable.

Nothing seems to faze her. When she dons that invisible nurse’s hat she is all business. It’s as if her whole body is on auto-pilot. She moves with tenderness and wisdom. The only way to know she is actually scared is when she starts to swear. She has always been like that. My brother could proudly show her his hands that resembled ground hamburger. Mom would just smile and congratulate him on making memories. Hamburger hands were not beyond her control. When she got a phone call that I was in a car accident, she hung up swearing. Then sped off to the hospital.

Swearing and speeding are her weaknesses. Once she was at the hospital she had her stoic face on while expertly inserting herself into the circle of doctors and nurses. She helped put stitches in my ear! She says things like, “Let me push the bed.” This is my mom. She won’t sit idly by watching. It doesn’t matter if she ever worked at the hospital or not. She will do what needs to be done. Don’t make my mom sit in another room. She has to help. It’s as if she was born to be a nurse.

My son is learning he was born to run. I picked him up from his practice on Friday after his first full week of Cross Country practices. He said, “I don’t like Track as much as Cross Country. It’s not as much fun to run short races. I just like to run.” He wants to still run Track in the spring because it’s running. Cross Country is where his heart is. He runs like a distance runner so it is nice to see him enjoy Cross Country so much. I have seen him come home with tears in his eyes after a disappointing run on summer mornings. Running is his passion. He is not satisfied unless he has left his guts on the trail.

Passion is what makes the world go round. I can think of so many examples of passionate people. Their passion inspires me. I may not be at all interested in what they do but I get goosebumps watching them do it well. I once asked a friend what he did for a living. His whole countenance lit up. The happiest smile spread easily across his face as he started speaking in a foreign language. Numbers. Great, the man does what my husband does. He works with numbers in a business setting. In fact, my husband started contributing to the conversation and I stopped nodding my head with a fake smile and glazed over eyes. They talked and laughed and finished each other’s sentences. Numbers, statistics, business. Blah! I may not get it but I love the passion. I would never want them to trade their jobs for something I could explain or understand.

Stories are what drive me. I have dabbled in many creative pursuits. It’s the story that compels me. Over time I learned that writing was the fastest way to find that creative fulfillment we all crave. I come from a line of storytellers on both sides of my family. The difference between them and me is, well it’s more than one difference. I hide behind written words. Words spoken out loud cannot be taken back. Written words can be erased and changed until they say what I mean.

The other difference is a strange feeling. I have never figured out how to express it in words. It’s an almost desperate feeling that if the stories aren’t preserved all will be wasted. Maybe it’s a morbid thing. Sometimes I think that writing is my only contribution to the world. It’s a way to be remembered when I die! At least my kids appreciate the stories now. I’m not dead yet! Mostly it’s a way to calm that fear that if I don’t write it down I will never remember.

Whether my writing means anything to anyone else it has helped me. I love going back and reading my faith through trials. I remember how at the time I never thought we would see the sun on the other side. Those stories strengthen me. I love reading about life with babies. I especially love all the Say What posts I have captured. They take me back to the exact moment my kids said the darndest things and I laugh heartily.

Blogging started out as a way to keep in touch with family when we moved. Its purpose has grown beyond that. Like my mom, my son, and my friend, I have found what makes my world turn. Writing is what I love. It fills a need in me. So I write.

Tap tap tap. Tappity tap clickety click.

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