In searching through some papers, I ran across older pieces I had written many years ago. Some were as far back as my high school years.

Slightly yellowed papers written by the hand of a teenager. In later writings, my poetry told of the loss of my parents, of the farm. My pen captured the joy of becoming a grandma and the world that awaited me as I traveled through life with these children. A woman of many feelings, many faces and emotions that found her answers through the pen in her hand. Many times I questioned why life was so difficult and where my place was in it. Never at a loss for words, they poured onto the paper for release and revelation.

This is a short column today. It is a piece to contemplate and understand. In its simplicity, I found my own answers. I hope in some way you might find your own.

I am a pen in the Writer’s Hand

A spark in dry tinder

A tool in Skilled Hands

A drop in a rising pool

A silent voice on a distant page

A compass for a traveler

A yes in a world of no’s

A mystery yet unraveled

A valentine overflowing

A note in a symphony

A song unwritten

A page waiting to be read

The list could go one, but this pretty much says it all. Perhaps you will find yourself in my list. Perhaps you will make your own. Wherein lies your truth?