My daughter and I spent a quiet Friday afternoon together. While I worked at my desk in my office, I noticed my five year old writing in her notebook. She looked up at me, her brown eyes filled with caged exuberance, and said, “Momma, I wrote a story all by myself. I am a writer, just like you.”

The significance of this moment penetrates me in ways I am unable to articulate. Waves of happiness, love and pride hit me in my core. Her finger held up her notebook, insisting I look at her words. Her story was complete with a beginning, middle and end. Witnessing this for the first time, my heart felt unable to comprehend her milestone. Holding back tears, I commemorated her accomplishment by taking pictures of her manuscript and swallowing her with my kisses and hugs. I am always struck by the ordinary nature of such moments. How just another day can give birth to something that is speckled with awe.

Our moment, her writing and my reading, prompted me to consider all of the stories that linger inside of us. Which stories are we willing to confess? Are our dreams are stories? Do we hide from what we carry inside of us? How many of us are willing to memorialize what lingers inside of us? Although my daughter’s written words convey a simple story, there is a power that moves beyond the pencil, paper, capitol and lower case letters, and of course, the blotchy eraser marks.

For me, it is a reminder to relish in the joy of writing. Of telling. Of weaving stories.

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Do you remember the first time your little one wrote a story? Do you journal or memorialize your own stories in some way? What are examples of speckles of awe in your own ordinary days?

 

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