Lost Words by Janet Sobczyk, 2016ⓒ
Oh, how I
regret the years I didn’t write.
They flew by,
one calendar
page after another,
too busy
raising a family to put thoughts on paper.
Mom enjoyed
stories about my family life,
so like hers,
yet different.
I don’t know how you do it all, she’d say.
I’d wondered
the same about her.
We shared
stories on the phone over too-long of a distance.
She’d laugh,
empathize,
encourage me
to write them down.
But I didn’t.
Now her voice
is gone.
I still long to pick up the phone, still have
stories to share.
Before my
voice is silenced, too,
it’s time to
write them down.
As a young mother, my creativity found expression in several ways. I snapped photographs to capture my babies’ growth, documented their milestones, cross-stitched pictures for their walls, decorated hand-made cakes for their birthdays, and sewed Halloween costumes. Those things were enjoyable because I needed to be creative to be happy. And somehow they seemed important, for my children's sake.
As a young mother, my creativity found expression in several ways. I snapped photographs to capture my babies’ growth, documented their milestones, cross-stitched pictures for their walls, decorated hand-made cakes for their birthdays, and sewed Halloween costumes. Those things were enjoyable because I needed to be creative to be happy. And somehow they seemed important, for my children's sake.
The
writer inside me also wanted quiet time to record the funny stories and cute
things they said. But the time never came. There was always another load of
laundry to do, or meal to make, or carpool to drive. And it was seldom quiet. Exhaustion
at the end of the day prevented writing when the kids were in bed. Getting up
earlier to write didn’t even cross my sleep-deprived mind.
During the
years when Facebook was in the distant future, I told my stories of raising
five children to mom on a corded phone. I enjoyed making her laugh, and she
lifted my spirits. She always said, “You should write a book!”
I didn’t believe anyone (but her) would want to read my stories. After all, everyone has their own. There’s nothing special about mine. There are plenty of books on the shelves of libraries and stores. Why create another one to gather dust?
I didn’t believe anyone (but her) would want to read my stories. After all, everyone has their own. There’s nothing special about mine. There are plenty of books on the shelves of libraries and stores. Why create another one to gather dust?
One random decision changed my thinking about writing. I decided to
return to college!
While working
full time, I enrolled in night classes. The biggest challenge was finding time
to do the homework. Usually my best quiet time was between 2:00 and 4:00
a.m. Raising babies had prepared me to be awake in the middle of the night.
With an Associate’s Degree in Journalism from my youth, I found it easy to write the required research papers. I could also manage deadlines well. Motherhood had taught me something about time management.
With an Associate’s Degree in Journalism from my youth, I found it easy to write the required research papers. I could also manage deadlines well. Motherhood had taught me something about time management.
A Literature
class inspired me to write poetry, which I hadn’t attempted since my teen years.
It opened the door to a type of creativity that I had buried long ago.
Eventually I entered the college’s writing contest, and placed first in two
categories!
One of my
daughters set up a blog, and showed me how to post my growing collection of poems. Soon
I added photos and descriptions to provide background.
Eventually I started submitting poems to magazines and contests, with mild success. Now I can even visualize a self-published collection of my memoir poetry.
Eventually I started submitting poems to magazines and contests, with mild success. Now I can even visualize a self-published collection of my memoir poetry.
Writing poetry
has led me to children’s stories, and to articles about parenting. One project
seems to inspire another one. So I just keep making time to write, to
follow the ideas as they come, enjoying where the process takes me.
I’ve learned
that I am a writer, even if that is not how I earn my living. I have a
reflective nature and tend to see and experience life in the context of stories
and images. I always have been a writer, even during the years when I didn’t write.
My creativity came out in other ways, but the desire was always there. It’s who
I am.
But I also
realize, after losing my mother, that my time for writing is limited. No one is
guaranteed a long, healthy retirement to tackle a lengthy bucket list. Saving
writing for those “golden years” is just procrastination. All anyone has is… now.
In the end, written words are what will be left of me. I can only guess who may be touched by them. Perhaps my children as they read and remember who I was, and how much I loved them. Or a great-great granddaughter who may glimpse the past through the window of my book of poetry. Or maybe a busy mom who recognizes herself in my poems about motherhood in an old magazine.
Or maybe no one. Maybe my stories won’t matter to anyone but myself. But I am a writer, and that is reason enough for me.
In the end, written words are what will be left of me. I can only guess who may be touched by them. Perhaps my children as they read and remember who I was, and how much I loved them. Or a great-great granddaughter who may glimpse the past through the window of my book of poetry. Or maybe a busy mom who recognizes herself in my poems about motherhood in an old magazine.
Or maybe no one. Maybe my stories won’t matter to anyone but myself. But I am a writer, and that is reason enough for me.
