A year and a half ago we moved into our lake house. I had grown up on a lake, but had been landlocked for 30 years and I missed the water so much that I felt like I was just going to shrival up if I didn’t get back to it. So, I started driving around looking for slivers of silver, and I began searching web sites and real estate magazines for “waterfront” listings in our area. It took me 5 years to find a house on a lake that we could afford but finally I did. It is a simple 3 bedroom 2 bath home and I just love it!

To get to our home you have to drive over a small ridge. When you reach the very top of the ridge the view is breathtaking. You can see the lake with a mountain in the distance.  When God made it possible for us to buy the house I promised Him that I would thank Him every time I came over that ridge. And I do thank Him. At first I remembered every single time but now, sometimes I forget my prayer of thanks.

And I have to wonder at that. The view is the same; wonderful and miraculous. The only thing that’s changed is that I have gotten used to it.

Today, I rededicated myself to that promise of gratefulness. I decided that I absolutely will not miss that view or the chance to thank God for it. And today, when we topped that hill on the way home I asked myself. How many other beautiful things have I gotten accustomed to? How many miraculous things am I forgetting to wonder about?

And that’s exactly what I’ve decided to blog about, at least for a while. So…stay tuned.

What is the point of writing? To create. To express yourself. To help you sort through things. To get published. To make a living. (LOL) To touch readers. What?

When, like most writers,  you have a lifelong addiction to putting words on paper (or computer screens) you have to stop and deal with that question…at least occasionally.

I still remember the first poem I wrote that wasn’t a school assignment.

Here it is:

The Gold Each Day

The gold in a golden hill,

The gold in a daffodill,

The gold in the marigolds,

Which climb up hills in little rows,

The gold where the children play,

The gold that’s in the world each day.

Pretty awful huh? Except….I was only about 8 years old….and I actually had the courage to submit it for publication. It was rejected, of course, but I still marvel at the fact that I thought someone else might want to read it.

I wrote that poem to express my optimistic little self…but I wanted to share it….I must have felt there was something in it that others would need or value. And that’s it isn’t it? The writing itself can be fun and wonderful but the bottom line is, that most of us pen pushers believe deep down that we have something to say that is at least marginally important.

And we’re right! No one else has ever lived the same moments we have lived, in the same places, known the same people or been in the same body or state of mind as we have. No matter how our words are judged “out there” by teachers, readers, or 21 year old editors they are, and will always be, uniquely ours and there is something important about that.

Sometimes the giants among us look small because they are flying so high.

Monday night I was tired so instead of packing up all my paints to go to my art class I took an old sketch pad, some pencils and tray of watercolors.

I opened the sketch pad and found some drawings of little characters that I had made, oh, probably about six years ago. I remember thinking that making greeting cards combines my two loves- writing and art. I liked the little characters, so I started reworking them a bit and then painting them.

Yesterday I scanned those pictures into a greeting card program and I made a few proto-type cards. It was fun and I am pleased with the results that are certainly not polished but instead loose and fun.

And I am amazed at how, sometimes, efforts we make come back to us. Those sketches were in that pad for years. Finally, I am using them to make something that perhaps I can share.

I think that we can’t even imagine how many times our everyday efforts come back to us. Most of the time we miss the connections of our past to our present, but the connections are there and that’s encouraging to me.

I’ve just returned from a visit to my homeplace, the little town where I grew up…  a place that’s done quite a bit of growing up itself. I had some adventures there. I spent a day on the beach with my terrific husband. I walked my pug down to the lake where she tried to eat a mussel and was teased by the little waves. And I got to spend two evenings with my zany cousins.

And I am struck with the fact that though we are born with our very own personalities, where we grow up and who we grow up with becomes a part of us forever. I grew up on the water and almost felt I couldn’t breathe until I finally got back to it. My favorite pals and best friends were my cousins. We had adventures every time we were together … and still do. I was given the gift of a terrific mom who loved me completely and made me feel like anything was possible.

All these things made indentions and smooth places on the heart that I was born with, like a sculpturer’s polish…like an artist’s brush. And though the things that come into my life now might affect the shape of who I am, those early impressions and experiences are the things that have given me the color of my soul.