When I was eleven years old, I found two treasures waiting for me at a garage sale.
One was a worn anthology of major American poets. The other was an old typewriter that had US NAVY printed on it, weighed almost as much as I did and had only ghostly remains of ink left in the ribbon.
I took both up in my arms and told the man I bought them from that I wanted to be a writer.
Later that same day, kneeling beside me at the coffee table, my mother showed me “where the fingers go” and I typed my first poem.
Since then, words and their brightness fidget out of me. Whether I look for them or not, they are balm, exposition, and some of my deepest prayers.
Writing, I have found is a way to open yourself up to the light.
For that I remain grateful.
Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning. James 1:17