Mariposa Kisses (aka Dianne's Blog)

We take so many simple blessings for granted. It is really easy to focus on what we do not have or the struggles that entangle us instead of the strengths we possess or the magnificent attributes that fill our days. I feel especially thankful to be married to a faithful and loving husband, who values my dreams and goals. He is likewise a fabulous father to our children. I marvel at God’s kindness to have blessed us with two amazing children and one on the way.

Likewise, I am appreciative of the house that we have owned for five years now. It is a humble house of three bedrooms with two baths, but it is made a home by our thriving garden on the side-yard, and the paints we hand-picked for each wall. Likewise, we have replaced fixtures and blinds to make it our own. There are still projects that remain unfinished due to busyness and limited finances; however, we dream of what we might do to our house some day…to add more ceiling fans, to put in wooden flooring, to redo our kitchen area, and to possibly do an add-on off of the back of our house. We are so blessed that we get to dream about what we might do to our house, for it is our house.

I am so incredibly grateful for my five senses. I think it is really easy to take these for granted, as we simply have not known life without them. But imagine if you didn’t have them…how different would your life be then? Oh, to smell my children as I kiss their heads after a hot bath, or to smell one of the roses or strips of basil from my garden while passing by. And I would surely miss all my stops into the lotion and bath stores to smell the wonderful new scents of the season. Oh, how I especially enjoy the smells of pumpkin and cinnamon during the fall. And what pleasure the smells bring when something delicious is baking in the oven or while the crock-pot is simmering all day long on a cool day. And isn’t the fresh smell of grass so overwhelmingly pleasant after the lawns are recently mowed? To smell…it is a true gift from the Lord.

What about the gift of hearing? Can you imagine all the music you would forego if you could not hear? I would especially miss wonderful praise music and the sound of my kids’ laughter. I’m forced to smile when they giggle at one another…usually for a very silly reason. The birds’ chirping would be a mere memory, as would the sound of running water in a creek-bed or raindrops hitting the windows. I would so miss the sound of the wind blowing through the trees and my husband’s calming voice when he reads to me on occasion before bed.

To see is such a gift as well. I can’t imagine not being able to see my daughter’s pouting face when she’s upset, for her facials so easily cause me to laugh. I love looking into my son’s beautiful blue eyes, knowing we’re connecting when I tell him, “I love you.” I can’t fathom the loss of being able to breathe in a beautiful sunset at the beach as the oranges and pinks swirl together like an impressionist piece off into the night. Seeing the beauty all around us is so easily taken for granted. We can pass by a beautiful cloud on a walk and think nothing of it, unless it was the last cloud we would see…or the last blade of grass we would gaze upon…or the last slice of orange we would be able to see while cutting. Colors would be mere memories and darkness and varying shades of light would become the norm. How lucky I am, that this day, I am so blessed with the gift of sight.

The gift of taste is phenomenal, especially during the fall when everyone starts baking again and the blessed treats of Thanksgiving and Christmas come upon us. I would likely wear a smaller skirt size if I did not love my sense of taste as much as I do; however, it is worth it when I consider all of the delectable foods I get to enjoy because of the gift of taste. It would be so tragic to give up even the simple things we eat daily… such as a fresh piece of sourdough toast with warm butter melted on top and a hot cup of coffee with vanilla creamer in it. The gentle and soothing flavors of our staple fruits, such as bananas, apples, and oranges, would be so missed. Oh, how I would pine for one more taste of my husband’s sweet kiss or one more drop of a romantic glass of merlot on a special date. I am truly thankful this day for my sense of taste. I think dinner will taste especially good this evening.

The gift of touch is so marvelous. Can you imagine not being able to feel the soft covering of your blanket on you at night? I am appreciative of my husband’s soft touch as we hold hands. And while in my third pregnancy, I am tremendously blessed when my two children put their hands on my belly to feel their sissy moving inside of me. Even feeling my daughter inside of me is such a gift; however, at times it is uncomfortable when she gets kicking wildly like a mule deer (but a reminder nonetheless that a life is growing inside of me). Even the touch of water on my body as I glide through the water during my swim workouts is so pleasant; I would greatly miss the gentle and relaxing touch of its drops on my skin if I did not possess the gift of touch.

Some days, I marvel at these amazing blessings with a proper perspective, of thankfulness and awe. However, most days, these wonderful gifts from the Lord go unnoticed or less appreciated than they should. It is my goal to become more grateful for my many blessings and I hope that you will as well. Join me in thanking the Lord for all that He has given to us. "Oh holy Father, thank you for all of the terrific ways in which you have blessed me and my family. You are good and it is good that I should give you thanks!" --Amen

We all have our various idiosyncrasies. We think of them as quirks, inconveniences, or oddities that we’d rather do without. And yet, there is something about our differences that make us uniquely who we are. Sometimes, we wear these traits of divergence on the outside where they are most obvious to the world; however, at times, they go unseen, as they are worn on the inside.

Both cause personal discomfort, as we would prefer to match the symmetry of normalcy. And yet, would we be who we are if these foibles disappeared? For one, it might be an oversized feature; for another it might be an undersized feature. For your friend, it might be an issue of weight, either too gangly or too stout. For a relative, it might be a disfigurement or a birthmark, something that makes him or her stand out. And for a co-worker, perhaps, it is her hair that never quite does the right thing, or a complexion that is non-compliant. For another, it might be a less obvious weakness of sorts, such as a speech or hearing impediment.

What is your specific peculiarity, the thing that makes you uncomfortable and wanting to hide? Is it perhaps on the inside? Do you long to let go of some addiction that goes unnoticed by anyone besides yourself, or a thought that deeply entangles your mind? Do you obsess over things that others readily dismiss? Is your peculiarity an addiction to control, to fear, to busyness perhaps? Does some disability grip you from the inside, which you would rather do without?

Whichever eccentricity you wear, it is yours, as is that patterned shirt hanging in your closet…the one you just can’t get rid of, but that you never really want to wear. This is not to say that we can not change who we are, but it is to acknowledge that we all possess certain idiosyncrasies and that we are not alone. It might seem that Mrs. Brady down the street has it all together, with no flaws or shortcomings, but in truth, I think she has a few hidden up her sleeve. Or, it might feel that your difference is so remarkable that no-one could possibly relate to your feelings of defeat.

However, in reality, we are all flawed; we all contain some sort of imperfection. For me personally, more than one defect comes to mind. And though it is tempting to compare myself to someone else without my peculiarity, who perhaps looks or acts “better” than I do, it is the inappropriate place to turn. Magazines and television are likewise the wrong places to go to for pick-me-ups regarding self-worth; however, we frequently do turn to those resources for self-definition, usually for what we are not or for what we do not have.

The true source for proper personal identity is the Bible. Though I frequently forget to turn there first, when I do, I am adequately and lovingly reminded of who the Lord says I am. David prays out to God in Psalm 139: 13-16, “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made…My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body…” Doesn’t that encourage you? Even when you are feeling frightfully disheartened, how can you not feel lifted up by those words? Contemplate the majesty that you are not a mistake because you were seen and formed by God himself in your mother’s womb. Think over how you were wonderfully and fearfully made. Your idiosyncrasy doesn’t appear quite so bleak after reading that verse, does it?

It’s not to say that Satan won’t keep throwing lies at you to discourage your spirit, but it is to say that “…the Spirit who lives in you is greater than the spirit who lives in the world” (1John 4:4). And it is wise to remember that you can “Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you” (James 4:7).

For some of us, our idiosyncrasy might wane or retreat altogether. Today, there are many corrective options for our physical flaws or disparities; and yet, is it really the best option? Should we change our physical image to align ourselves more closely to that of the world? It’s not to say that some things should not be sought after; for example, being physically fit honors the Lord because it is an act of caring for the body he has given you, which is a gift. Paul says in Romans 12:1, “…offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God—this is your spiritual act of worship.” So, clearly keeping our bodies in good shape is something that pleases God. And yet, if we make our outward appearance our primary goal for the purpose of looking good rather than being healthy, it seems that we are missing God’s point. For instance, the next verse in Romans 12 says, “Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” So, I think it is between each of us and the Lord to decide which flaws are to remain and which ones are to be refurbished. Ultimately, we must come to terms with who we are in HIM and trust him for our self-worth and value.

For those blemishes that are internal, we can definitely seek terrific professional counsel, but even then, it is important to remember that God is our ultimate Counselor, to whom we should turn for encouragement and truth. Isaiah 9:6 foreshadows Christ’s coming and says, “…And he will be called Wonderful Counselor…” Likewise, it is comforting to know that God will bring us to total completion once we are in heaven with HIM. Praise the Lord that he is not done with us yet, but that “…he who began a good work in (us) will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6).

The gifts…the flowers…a kiss…he leaves for work. The sun sets over the Pacific. They reunite. He stands with his back to its beauty. She looks back at him; her face is radiant. They stand together; their smiles join as one. Two sets of hands cover their embrace. It is a time to celebrate.

The quaint Italian restaurant is amply filled. They choose an outside table on the patio. She orders lobster raviolis in a spicy cream sauce. He orders bow-tie pasta in a rich creamy pesto decorated with grilled chicken and bacon. The dessert is decadent chocolate cake with warmed raspberry syrup drizzled on top. They sip their coffee as the coastal layer blankets itself over them. The cool coastal breeze can be felt, but their proximity keeps them warm. They smile for the waiter as he snaps a shot of them. Their first anniversary is commemorated. A fun-filled weekend ahead on Catalina Island awaits them.

Upon arrival, one of their first activities is a bike-ride to the top of the mountain overlooking the Pacific’s beauty and the peaceful presence over Avalon. It’s a charming city with a population of one thousand at best. Of course its visitors fluctuate like the tides themselves. Even though the population waxes and wanes, the island never loses its relaxed feel. The old casino, now used as a theater, sits at the end of the cove. Though the exchange of chips and bills is no longer observed inside the casino walls, the island sees its fair share of wealth. The bay is filled with glamorous house-boats and yachts. Simultaneously, the mighty cruise ships sail in for a reprieve from their time at sea. The hotel rooms are quaint, reminiscent of those in Paris. The palm trees are a common sight on the island, along with eucalyptus trees, hibiscus flowers, and many California shrubs. The silky plains of sand on her beaches are contrasted with the interior mountainous terrain.

Oh to arrive on this sacred island and to feel its peace. The goal is close at hand once they park the car and set foot upon the forty foot catamaran. The gliding beast takes off and charges the ocean with ease. The salty air can be tasted in a pleasant way as the sunshine beams down on them. A light jacket helps protect them against the ocean’s commanding wind, such a powerful wind that humbles their busy perspectives and quiets their minds into submission. The relaxation starts to kick in and the peaceful state begins as their shoulders relax and their tension subsides. Their breathing becomes more rhythmic, adhering to the beating of the boat upon the water itself. Obedience to a higher calling is setting in… tranquility is upon them. Their arrival does not go unnoticed by the island dwellers, as the ship pulls in. Friendly smiles are exchanged and some even offer to help with their luggage. Few cars can be observed. Golf carts are used if necessary; however, primarily people walk or ride bicycles.

They find a solitary pathway where they can retire from their arduous bike-ride to catch their breath. They carve their initials into the skin of a very old eucalyptus tree. Another couple approaches on bikes; they too have found the hidden pathway. “One…two…three…” They capture the soft moment for Jeremy and Denise. “Thank you. Enjoy your time on the island,” Denise echoes to the visitors as they ride off. After some time overlooking the island, they retreat to the sea itself. The water is refreshingly cool, but moderate for May. They sit upon the large rocks, dangling their feet in the water below. The music of the island is of sea gulls and soft waves hitting the sand and rocks. The tensions from life on the mainland begin to dissipate. Their shoulders begin to loosen up; their sense of smell becomes keener with each breath of the sea’s aroma. Their eye lids blink less often and remain shut longer. “The peace…the serenity…the solitude…oh if only it could be bottled and brought back home. We would be instant millionaires,” she sighs. He nods in absolute agreement.

They venture back to the bikes, but at a leisurely pace this time. The island’s medicinal magic begins to take effect. It seduces their senses, saying, “Rest and relax with me; play for awhile.” Perhaps the island will reveal to them another concealed path.

Cats sleep well beyond the average animal in their kingdom. Do you have a cat? Then you know exactly what I mean. My cat gets so relaxed; you’d seriously think he was dead. In fact, one time, I did mistake him for dead. One day (not an unusual occurrence) my cat Sage was fast asleeeeeeeeep in my daughter’s crib. I was so convinced that he was dead, I even started to get teary-eyed. I thought, “I guess that’s it, he’s dead.” I poked and prodded him and he didn’t budge. He finally made a sharp motion that convinced me rigor mortis was kicking in. In actuality, Sage was just “dead” asleep. Isn’t twenty three hours of sleep per day a bit excessive? Okay, maybe it’s only like twenty one hours per day, but still… that’s quite a bit. Additionally, my cat can seriously saw some logs while he’s sleeping. You’ll be alone in the house and hear a noise that makes you think, “My gosh, someone’s in the house” and then you realize, “No, it’s just the cat snoring up a storm of thunderous Zs.”

My cat has an excessive way of being affectionate, which is a nice term for incredibly annoying. Don’t get me wrong, I looooooooooove cats, especially my cat. Nevertheless, when I sit down at my computer, I do actually desire to get something accomplished. My cat, however, does not understand this. Within seconds, I am attacked by my cat’s incessant plea to pet him while on top of the mouse pad or in front of the monitor. This is the same cat that jumps on the bed to lie on top of me or my husband the instant one of us gives evidence of wakefulness in the morning. This is particularly annoying when we are merely trying to change sides or get a sip of water but would like to retain our current REM cycle.

Another eccentricity about my cat is his need to paw on the doors as if he were an Olympic freestyle swimmer. It’s his way of communicating to us that he’d like to come into the bathroom while we’re in there doing our business. Or, he lets us know he’d like to wander outside the house while we’re enjoying a quiet retreat on the back patio. At least his swimming workouts get the blood pumping… but not when we’re already blissfully relaxed under the covers in bed. Even though the door is adequately cracked open, Sage shuts the door on himself and then starts thrashing around as if he were being attacked by a predator.

Now the hair is something else to be reckoned with. Is the hair alone such a big deal? Even though it covers the entire house, including most of our clothes? No, this alone isn’t immensely problematic…but the hairballs, yes, quite honestly, those I could do without. How can a few blades of grass cause our cat to puke within second of re-entering the house? It’s absolutely mind-boggling. And, it’s completely irritating when the cat manages to vomit on one small part of our recently washed duvet cover. Once again our room is going to look like Big Bird danced the salsa as I retrieve the down comforter.

Now, could I do without my cat, in spite of his quirky disposition and his plethora of idiosyncrasies? Definitely not…because he is the one who lies by my side when I’m feeling blue. He meows at me each morning to greet me into a new day, reminding me that I’m never alone. He lies in my kids’ beds keeping them nice and toasty throughout the day. His frequent coma-like state does inspire me to take a nap on occasion. And he definitely makes our house feel like a home; is a house really a home without a cat present? Furthermore, our cat is a really good sport; he puts up with consistent tackles from our preschooler and unremitting hair removal from our toddler. Though our cat has slid substantially lower on the totem pole, he is and always will be a valued member of our family.

Your goodness is real Lord. I know it is. And yet on this day as we approach the celebration of your birth, I struggle with the authenticity of the baby figure lying in the manger. Are you real? Yes, definitely. And yet something holds me back from truly believing. Even though I put my faith in you almost twenty years ago, I feel these pangs of doubt holding me back. I’m sorry for the weakness of my faith. I pray that you would take the infinitesimal mustard seed of faith that I possess and multiply it into a prosperous tree with fruit, which would honor you and express the glory due your name. I’m held back by the supernatural reality of the godhead, three in one, and your son being a baby, just like my precious little babies that you have given to me. I believe in miracles, I’ve even experienced some in my humble life thus far. But, it’s hard for me to fathom the reality of such a simple child coming… were his genes beyond comprehension? What did his chromosomes look like? Were they different than mankind’s genetic composition today? Did he truly never sin, even as a tiny boy? With other siblings around, did he never get upset or pummel his brother over some silly dispute? Or should I say, did you never do anything wrong?

And I think the struggle I have in my weak faith is to grasp your total goodness while observing all the pain and hurt around me and in my own life thus far. Your total goodness allows people to choose between right and wrong, thereby allowing for immoral acts to occur. The child that is sexually abused must pay the price for humanity to receive your goodness. The aborted baby must pay the price for your goodness, so that his mother can demonstrate her free will. The father that abandons his family for another woman expresses his free will, so that your goodness can be evidenced in his life. All the suffering in the world makes it hard to regard this little baby, swaddled in first century cloths, as trustworthy. I want to believe it Lord. My head and my heart are at war over your trustworthiness. I want to be healed from my own hurts and feel that it really is possible to find the peace for which you are the prince of. I want to believe with my whole heart and mind that you are who you say you are and that you are truly good; however, if I am honest, I must confess to you my doubting heart. This Christmas, will you work in my heart and meet me where I am at? Will you show me that you, little baby Jesus, are trustworthy and that you are doing a work of completion in my heart? I give you all that I am; I offer to you what I am not and what I want to be. I surrender my whole heart to you. Happy Birthday Baby Jesus!

Amen!

It’s not that most of us readily admit it, but sometimes, we as moms feel we’ve been lost somewhere in one of our mountain-sized laundry piles. Or, maybe it’s in the massive abyss of toys filling our family rooms…or in the unending mound of dirty dishes on the left side of the sink that seemingly never ends. In actuality, the messes do disappear for a short while; we all know that deep sigh of relief when everything looks clean… for like five minutes, before the kids wake up and take it as their personal challenge to remove every toy you’ve recently put away. Later in the day, when you’ve actually made improvements on the laundry piles filling your hallway, your husband comes home, changes his clothes, and throws the old ones into yet one more new pile to be dealt with another day. Likewise, he places his lunch pail on your clean counter with more dishes inside that need washing. Even the dog takes part in the family’s scheme to mess up mom’s clean house as he shakes his hair all over the newly vacuumed sofa and drips water from his bowl onto the newly swept kitchen tile. And the cat…couldn’t that hairball have been avoided on the newly washed duvet cover? A clean house isn’t really what defines a mom… is it?

Even though we as moms know that we are not defined by our plethora of daily tasks and accomplishments, somewhere between our job as maid, chef, chauffeur, counselor, nurse, veterinarian, secretary, financial planner, landscaper, and personal shopper, we do get lost. Who are we really? Many moms, like myself, have resigned from goal-oriented academic pursuits or ambitious career paths to start a family. Certainly, the trade-offs have been worth it. I have two wonderful children and a third in the oven; my conviction that I’m doing the right thing by staying at home to raise my children is solid and couldn’t be stronger. And yet, I struggle with days of pensive questioning regarding my role in life…with days of wondering who I really am. Does society really value me? Does my family value me? Am I lost somewhere in that laundry pile that never seems to dissipate, no matter how fast I wash it?

On days when we struggle through our identities as moms, it is important to be reminded of God’s truths. When I am frazzled and exhausted, I am reminded of God’s word in Isaiah, “Those that wait upon the Lord will renew their strength. They will mount up with wings as eagles; they will run and not grow weary” (Isaiah 40:31). Likewise, I think upon Paul’s encouragement in Philippians when he says, “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” (Philippians 4:13). And if my purpose is feeling uncertain, I am reminded of God’s promise in a previous chapter of Philippians that says, “Being confident of this that he who began a good work in you will carry it onto completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6).

In truth, the piles of laundry and dishes will never cease, though for short moments at a time. The pans will always need cleaning and the countertops to be wiped down. Daily, the weeds will grow taller along with your little ones at home. Your cars will need washing. Your kids will need taxi services. Your plants will need watering and your kids and spouse will need three meals per day prepared for a couple of decades at least. And at the end, you will have raised a family who loves you dearly. And you will be able to observe your children and spouse who are the people they are because of the woman you have been their whole lives. Keep up the good work wives and moms!

Mugs can’t talk, therefore, they can’t tell a story per se; however, each mug has had its unique fill of tales. Do you remember the time I sat with Billy over that cup of English tea? It was a beautiful mug decorated with pansies, chrysanthemums, and light pink ivy geraniums. Oh, what a conversation that was, and the tea was delightful with just the right amount of honey in it. I didn’t really know much about the war until I sat next to her on that rainy afternoon. It was quite amazing really. Her husband flew a mail carrier over the Himalayas and his plane engine went out during one of his flights. The plane soared down for thousands of feet, like a great eagle with its wings tied. And all of a sudden, as if an angel from heaven intervened, the plane’s engine kicked in, and her husband, Cub, was alright. Well, that wasn’t his real name, but that was what everyone called him. You know how that works. We all have a nickname of some kind, like how you call me Missy Moo. It makes no sense, especially given that I’m now thirty years old, but I love it nonetheless.

That reminds me of my red and pink poinsettia mug. Do you know which one I’m talking about mother, the faded one with the permanent coffee stain around the top? Do you remember the time you brought me some fresh squeezed orange juice in that mug because we were all out of glasses in the cupboard? Well, it was reasonable given that the twins had just been born. Oh, they were so tiny and it was such a miracle that they made it. That orange juice hit the spot. My body and spirit were so tired, even too tired to sleep; my mind was stirring with a whirlwind of thoughts and my body ached throughout. You helped me so much during that visit. I’ll never forget the laundry you folded; oh, weren’t their little socks so tiny? The home-cooked meals were scrumptious and you even got outside and trimmed my climbing rose bushes. But the all-time act of service was your attempt to clean our shower that was covered in mold and slimy residue. I’ll never forget all the physical needs you met of ours and even more so, the time you gave, just listening to my joys and concerns. Oh, I’ll never forget that wonderful glass of hand-squeezed orange juice. I never would have thought of adding a squeeze of lime to it. It was delicious.

Oh and then, there’s my chipped and faded Santa mug. Remember our first childhood Christmas away from home, how we flew up to Washington to visit Gam and Grandpy for the holidays? It was so cold; you could feel the iciness all the way down to your bones. Upon our arrival from the airport, Sissy and I got unpacked and then decided to go outside exploring. It was frightfully chilly, but with so much adventure on the horizon, the cold had to be dismissed, momentarily anyhow. After seeing several deer and some beautiful blue jays, we decided to head back to Gam’s humble home. Redwood was heard crackling in the antique fireplace; their cat Fluffy was asleep on the arm of the blue corduroy sofa. Gam saw us coming and before we could sit down, she put a cup of warm hot cocoa in each of our hands. She even included those miniature marshmallows, the multi-colored ones that I still love. I’ll always cherish my Santa mug with its big fluffy beard and jovial smile. Likewise, I’ll always treasure that special time up at Gam’s.

Wow, that smell is wonderful mom. It sounds like the coffee is done brewing, so I’m going to go and get myself a fresh cup of coffee. Would you like a refill in yours? Is this mug new? I’ve never seen one quite like this. Where did you get this one? This one belonged to Great Grandma Sally? It sounds like she was a pretty incredible lady. I’m not sure if I could have raised eight kids on my own, let alone in the Midwest before there was electricity and running water. Oh, tell me some more about her adventures when she was overseas with the Red Cross. I really like that one about how she met Great Grandpa Arnold. It’s so humorous, it doesn’t seem quite possible. Are you sure you’re not adding in a few creative details to make it sound more entertaining? Wait, don’t start until I’m back with the cream and sugar, I want to hear every word.

“Mommy, hold you” my son asks me in his sweet little two-year-old voice, which means he wants me to hold him. This is the same son who at the end of bath-time must hand me each bath-toy one by one at a snail-slow pace so that each toy makes it out of the tub properly. And the crib paraphernalia makes its way out of the crib at the same rate. Going on the potty frequently involves a host of activities: playing with “friends” (also known as “toys”), picking out stickers and plastering them on self and on mommy, reading pony, sheep, and potty books, along with the occasional jaunt off the toilet out into the family room. If you’re a parent of a toddler, you know these descriptions as your own.

In a demanding world with traffic, bills to pay, and household chores that recur unendingly, the little people in our lives can sometimes seem like an inconvenience. Their little requests to sit and read or to wrestle and tackle with the household pillows can seem like encumbrances. The blocks you help your child build only to be pummeled over minutes later may seem like a pointless project in the midst of all that other important stuff that has to get done. That is…to you, it may seem pointless; however, to your toddler, it speaks volumes. The precious time you give to your little one demonstrates to him that he is valued and loved.

With certainty, the imperative tasks will get done; the clothes and towels in that mountain-sized laundry pile will get washed and dried eventually. Sure, the dishes won’t wash themselves, but they too will make their way into the dishwasher and eventually back into the cupboards. The bills will get paid and the lawn mowed. The calls will eventually be returned.

And the little person in your life will know he is loved… because you took the time to play with him, to listen to his two-year-old babble, to hug and kiss him, and to read the animal book for the hundredth time that day. To all the exhausted moms and dads out there, you are making a difference in the life of your child. Don’t give up!

What does it mean to be a writer? According to Webster’s New World Dictionary, it means, “one who writes, esp. as an occupation; author.” Is this definition complete? Or does it merely glance at the tip of the mountain while missing out on the mass that lies below? In this short essay, I would like to delve into the question first posed. A writer… is there more to it than, “one who writes?” It seems to me that there is more to that definition, much more.

A writer is one who lives, one who dances, one who dreams, one who creates, one who spies on the world and its inhabitants. She is one who sings the song of the world through the written word. He is one who reflects the echo of the universe in all of its vastness and yet simplifies it for the common reader. She can be technical if need be, and yet as simple as a baby’s first babble.

A writer is one who feels humanity’s joys and sorrows simultaneously. A writer has an ocean-deep canyon of ideas springing up from within. He has a passion that can not be quenched. She loves to absorb life’s details from the people around her, and yet she needs the silence of nature to ground her.

Is this beginning to capture the essence of what it means to be a writer? Is your heart beating faster as you long to add your own words to my definition? Is your heart always longing for an outlet to express yourself? Then, you too are a writer.