Yesterday, at my librarian conference in Huron, I
participated in a session about finding your calling. One woman, started crying
as she iterated to us that she felt as if she wasn’t brave enough to reach her
calling. Empathetically, my heart stung too. I can’t imagine being in my
sixties and feeling inept to reach towards any sort of calling. As soon as she
said, “I’m not brave enough,” I felt immediately grateful for all the people
who have ever called me brave.
Then, I wondered, why? Why do people think I am brave or why
have I felt able to do things that others might have felt fearful of? It hit me
this morning, during a conference session in which speakers chatted about new
books for young readers.
I garner bravery from writing. I always have.
For as long as I can remember, when I was anxious or scared,
I wrote. When I would scream at my mom in the middle of the night because “I
COULDN’T SLEEP”, she handed me a pen and paper and commanded I “write” (a
wonderful alternative to me crawling in bed with my dad and her).
A little later, when friends and I fought and fear inhibited
me from approaching them, I’d write page long notes apologizing and asking for
forgiveness. Pen and paper gave acted as catalysts for strength.
When a teacher sexually harassed me, I didn’t come to terms
with the incident until I wrote about it years later in an assignment for creative
writing class in college. Until I wrote about it, I was captive to the ideas
and thoughts induced by my insecure self and the misuse of power from a person
I trusted.
Even now, when I’m scared or unsure, I write. Writing
generates answers, writing gives me hope…
Writing makes me brave.
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