As a child I lived in a small neighborhood in northern Delaware. In fact, it was barely a neighborhood, more like a few houses tucked away off a mundane street. What I remember most about being a child is not my room, or my house. And now that I really think about it, if asked, it is likely that I would not be able to recall many or most details about my homes interior. I can however vividly describe every element of the outdoors. Behind out house there was a large fenced in field that once was home to a small pony. In the summer it would span with yellow buttercups, we would slide under the fence to pick them. Our yard was long, lush and green. It backed up to the woods, containing a small creek in which we put stepping stones to cross. Perhaps my most powerful memory is of three grand oak trees that stood side by side. We were told that they were hundreds of years old, and their great trunks rose high into the tree tops. This fascinated me, the wisdom they must carry, the things they must have seen. These majestic trees had possibly become my first muse, my first insight to the world of writing.
How three aged trees became my first sense of writing may be hard to imagine. After all, they do not speak, communicate, or interact with us in any way. What was different though, was that for me, they did. When the wind blew their leaves, I could hear their words. My father would entertain me with countless stories of the trees “magic”. They were tales of underground passage ways that you enter through the tree trunks, and about how they watched over the children. He told one in which the trees would collect any change dropped near their roots over hundreds of years and sometimes they would decide to give a child some of the money they had collected. One day I found several pennies. Through these stories, I was opened to a world of imagination and creation. It is because of these that I began writing, and because of these that I believe in writing. I believe that writing is one of the greatest gifts ever given to us.
I believe that writing is the true insight to our past, present, and future. I have felt some of life’s greatest emotions while encompassed in a book, and cannot for a second believe that the author was simply talented at stringing attractive sounding words together. A piece of the original penman remains in their writings.
I believe that true writing is not something you do when you have to. It comes from inside, and is always sleeping and hibernating, waiting for you to wake it. It can be one of your greatest escapes from the world, allowing you to be and feel however you choose. This is why I believe in writing. Because it is in writing that I soar higher than the highest branch of my oak trees.
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