The reason I write.

When I first started Frantic Finch (less than 8 months ago) I thought I was being led to write so that I could help others.  I was wrong.  I got it wrong. I was being led to write so I could help myself.  Not in a selfish way, but in an exploratory way.  When I write, I discover how I feel instead of chewing on random bits of information in no order.  It's like snacking on chips then gnawing on a tough chuck roast the next.  Writing helps me sort it out so I'm not standing in front of the refrigerator one minute then trying to put a jar of peanut butter in the oven the next.  I arrange my thoughts into categories so I don't have an upset stomach.

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Instead of having a conversation in my head, I write.  It helps me organize the details. Like making a list.  Sometimes I write to remember.  The more I can flesh out the details of an experience or person, it helps me to cherish the moment long after it has passed.  I can even appreciate the bad experiences if the details in the story are there for a lesson.  Painful as the lesson may be.

There are times when I meet people and I get a tingle up and down my arms.  It's almost like a vibration.  For the longest time I had no idea what that feeling was but I have since realized that this is my body's response to The Holy Spirit, Muse, Creative Genius, trying to get my attention.  It's as if nature is alerting me to TURN ON my mental recorder because they're about to give me a gift.  This was the case of the sweet lady giving me a pedicure (NAME IN LIGHTS), or the lady I helped at the drug store. (JESUS MADE ME GO TO WALGREENS).

The Saturday night after Thanksgiving, I couldn't sleep because (CRANBERRY SAUCE's)story would not let me go.  That same creativity drug me out of the bed at my Mother-In-Law's house and sat me down on her blue floral sofa and tapped her illusive foot and said, "You can sleep after we write this" It's still one of my most popular posts.

I write because I cannot help it.  Now that I bought my desk and was willing to give it away (A TALE OF TWO DESKS) my spirit sits with me.  Sometimes silent.  Sometimes quite chatty.  But through whatever writing emotion I'm experiencing, I feel it nearby and that's why I've never thought my writing was completely mine.  I've mentioned this before in other posts, and I know that others have said it too - but it almost feels like it is passing THROUGH me not from me.

I've written while sitting at the kitchen table with so many tears that I didn't bother looking at my computer screen.  I've bowed my head, rolled my shoulders into a slump and sobbed while my fingers kept typing.  When my muse decided he or she was through with me, I collected myself, blew my nose, and wiped my eyes.  When I finally looked at my computer screen, I saw horrible spacing, misspellings and strange autocorrects, but the written piece (LAST LEAF) managed to survive and make it to the blog.

I cannot know what scars you have.  I cannot know the experiences you've had that filter what you see today.  This blog is about my own experiences so if they help you "on accident" then that is the power of relationships.  Real or imagined.  The lens you look through will never be the lens that I see through and that's what makes being humans so extraordinary.  If I can tell a story that you end up relating to and it helps you, it must be purely by fate, not because I know what I'm talking about, because I don't.  This world that we are in is a confusing one and changes every moment.  If I help you, through my experiences so be it but I cannot write for the sole purpose of helping others.  I don't believe I'm qualified.  I don't believe anyone is qualified to tell another person how to behave because they don't have the same life story, the same filter, the same history that you have.  What works for one won't necessarily work for another but we can share thoughts and ideas to encourage one another.  The past tells our story, but we cannot let us define us OR our future.

The guy I work for (the job where my income helps pay the bills) has this desk that has intrigues me.  It has chiseled marks around the edges which look like a cheese grater or pizza cutter has cut into the sides of his desk with the most ornate decoration except that it looks like it was in error.  Wood damaged but somehow made the best of with the cuts it endured.  Chipped away edges that appear to have damage but then you realize the decoration is there about every 24 inches.  Precision is never our life.  Our "cut-ins" or damages or decorations aren't always by design but I promise you they are for a reason.  What you have gone through may make sense one day or may never make sense.  It's not up to us to figure it out.  It's up to us to keep moving because the lesson might not be for us but for someone who is observing us.

Sometimes I get it right.  I catch a story as easily as my Jack Russell effortlessly catches Cheese Nips tossed in the air.  Other times I'm her nails and paws slipping on the hardwood, scratching for every crumb that falls.

I don't know what I'm doing or what I'm going to write about most days, but you are welcome to join me on my journey.  I'm exploring.  I'm going for a walk.  I'm curious to see what will come from my fingertips on the keyboard.  There are times, I promise you, that I've typed a story, a lyric, a prose, a list...and I've come back to it later and never remember writing it.  Most of the time, I believe, because they were never my words.

It's all passing through me.  Same as life.  Passing through.  Grab it.  Hear It.  Take a ride with it. Make art with it.

Be it. Whatever "IT" may be.

It's gone too fast.