A few of the kids
Near here, there is an amazing botanical garden with more variety of evergreen trees than I could have thought existed. The kids had lots of fun exploring the forest and all it had to offer. It’s well set-up with labels on everything, a greenhouse with tropical plants, a maze, eating wild strawberries and blueberries (which turned their tongues blue!) and more. Before going into the forest, we also walked around the castle in Tharandt, though for some reason a lot of the pix didn’t come out so good, sniff. It was a good, tiring excursion!
This was an amazing, fun experience! There are more pix on my FB, these are the ones with the kids in them 😀
Writing for me started out almost by accident. I needed to write a text for a mother’s newsletter I was starting and my first “article” was born. Everyone who read it told me I needed to keep writing; that it was a skill I needed to use, and eventually it was published in the Activated magazine.
I decided to add writing to my blog, though I’ve never been the kind of person who can write on a daily basis—at least not anything all that great. I got a lot of ideas from other blogs, books, and writers I follow and I’m still learning a lot about it. I still think that original article was one of my best ever, but that won’t stop me from writing when I can.
Over the years, I’ve been asked why I write and the question has often crossed my mind. I have many reasons for writing, and I’ve often attempted to put them down. Thankfully, this writer expressed it better than I ever could. This is taken from A Word Fitly Written
I ask myself why.
Why do I want to write?
Why do I find such joy in doing so?
Is it just my way to express myself, my ideas, my individuality? Is it cathartic for me in some way?
Is it about me?
I pray not.
For if that were the reason, I would be compelled to set aside my pen and paper.
But what is it?
And why do I feel not only a joy in writing, but a compulsion to do so?
As if something would be lost if I did not write?
Would there be?
And the ideas. Where do they come from?
Some from dreams, some from conversations, some from things I read or watch. They grow and develop and suddenly, they are a creation. But not mine. I couldn’t take credit as the ideas just come to me.
At the same time, I know I must build, develop and expound.
Writing is a crazy thing.
The call to write, even more so.
Yet there are few things more wonderful than to write and post or publish, and someone says, “That’s what I’ve always thought, or felt,” or, “It answered a question I’ve always had,” or, “How did you do that? It made me cry, or laugh, or decide to dream again.”
Writing is more than just self-expression. It’s making your heart, your very soul, available for all to see.
Why would anyone choose such vulnerability?
Perhaps it’s a hope that someone will find, within the words, a reflection of their own soul.
Their own questions and fears, hopes and dreams, passions and wishes.
And maybe then have the courage to likewise reach out to see their dreams realized or to overcome their fears, and find faith. Hope. Love.
This is why I write.