My Canvas of Words

So I wanted to write about why I write. It's kind of strange to think about, but it has been on my mind to write about it for a few weeks now.

I have never made it a secret that I struggle with words. All my life I have struggled to make words obey me. There is a disparity between what abides in my mind and what comes out of my mouth. I have a very difficult time speaking to people, no not speaking, but rather communicating with people. I want to express one thing and something other comes out. I am much better then I once was, but it is still a daily struggle to get my verbal words to express what is in my mind.

When I was a child I had trouble in school. I could not read beyond a 2^nd or 3^rd grade level until my senior year of high school. It was in my freshman year of college that I learned that I had Dyslexia.

I have had some help over the years learning to see the words without their motions. I've slowly learned to allow words to rest better on a page. There are still times when words allude me though. Some words confuse me like then and than, since and sense, etc.

Yet, I have been writing since I was ten years old. It is a part of who I am. When I was ten my dad gave me a diary for Christmas. It was pink with a unicorn and a rainbow on the cover. It also had a little lock on it that couldn't keep a gnat out really, but I thought it was a safe place to vent my frustrations.

I later found out that it wasn't a safe place at all. I learned to be more careful about what I wrote so I wouldn't get a beating. I was often punished for writing my thoughts down in that little pink book. Some of the things I wrote were hateful and disrespectful to my step-mother and to my dad. But they were my true heart at those moments.

They were not words I would have ever willingly shared with them. I would not have wished for them to read my diary any more then I would have wished for them to read my mind. There were times when I felt guilt for the things I wrote, and the things I felt back when I was a kid.

Unlike my parents, when I tell God my true heart about my frustrations in life, He does not punish me for it, instead He shows me His great compassion and unending love. I no longer feel condemnation for my feelings. There are times I feel conviction, but no more do I feel condemned.

For some reason beyond my understanding I continued to write in notebooks and journals throughout my teen years. I wrote in many journals. I wrote hundreds of poems and short stories, replete with spelling and grammatical errors.

I recall my Jr. High science teachers telling me that I had no talent for writing, that true authors know how to spell correctly and use proper grammar. Since I could do neither well I was obviously better suited for a less challenging career. I asked her what career she thought I'd best be suited for and she said, “A prostitute.”

Yes, you did read that last line correctly. Words like that sting. They stay with you forever. After her words I hid away my writings. I hid away my heart in the pages of my many misspelled and grammatically flawed books. I didn't share with others for the most part. With very few did I share my love of poetry.

Some words sting. But other words bring about freedom and life.

In my twenties I wrote a short story for a small magazine that a friend of mine published. I asked one of my English professors to help me rework it. I had never published anything before and I was nervous that it wasn't good enough. After reading it she corrected two misspelled words and gave the piece back to me. When I asked what else should I change she said, “Nothing, I wish I could write like you do.” Words like that, when they are truth, bring healing.

After I had my second son I would sometimes write things for people in our home prayer group. I felt uncomfortable sharing my poems with these people because many of them were well educated. Our pastor had been a college English professor and I was sure he would find my poems trite, shabby and meaningless.

One day he told me that I had talent. He told me that what I had to say was far more important then my ability to spell. His words were love, they were life.

God is funny in His ways. He takes the weak things of our lives to confound us. He takes those things we think are impossible and imperfect, he make them possible and useful. He takes our frailties and uses them for His glory.

For me words are odd, they float in my mind. For me words have colors, like a prism of light. Words have sound, like musical notes to me. Words for me are more then characters on a page, or oration on a stage. Words for me are like wings of a bird, like wind in the leaves. My canvas is the page, my brush is a pen, my medium is words.

Sometimes I wish that I were an artist like my son. It is amazing how he is capable of bringing his imagination to life on his canvas'. Whether he is painting with watercolors, sketching with a pen, drawing with markers, or sculpting with found items, he has this ability to translate his imagination into visual stimuli that is well beyond anything I could ever produce.

Of course, he struggles with the idea that what he produces is not good enough. I think part of that is because what ends up on the canvas is not fully what he sees in his mind. And yet, it is far superior then what the average individual could produce. I think I know how he feels to not be able to get out what you really want to show.

Still his creative nature inspires me to strive to do better in my life. It stirs me to work at the gifting that God has given me. God has gifted me in areas that I seldom share with others. He has given me abilities that I have struggled to understand, to apply to my life, to my world. Words are just part of those gifts. Perhaps in time I will feel more free to share some other gifts that God has given to me, but this is about words.

Words are just words on their own. They don't have very much value in and of themselves. Words set apart from their meanings are useless really. But for me words have been a help to me in troubled times. Not just any words, but God's words come tumbling into my mind and renew me. When God gives me words they are worth sharing. When they are my own words... when it is just me, they are less useful. But when they are honest words, God can change them from meaningless to purposeful.

So I write, I write words. I write thousands of words. I write constantly. I write my sorrows. I write my pains. I write the truth, that is so obvious to me. I write the lies I've been told. I write the lies I've told myself. I write what I see. I write what I feel. I write what I know. I write for me. I write for clarity. I write for enjoyment. I write to de-clutter my mind. I write to renew my mind. I write to express my imagination. I write to express God's imagination. I write to explain the invisible world. I write to explain the visible world. I write to paint pictures with words on the canvas of pages. And I write to find peace in a chaotic world. I write because I have been given the gift to do so.