Last summer I was at my aunt's and out of the blue she produced two pieces of paper from a drawer. One was a letter I wrote when I was a little girl complaining to my mum about my uncle asking me to take a nap every afternoon. The other was a short poem about animals I made up after spending an afternoon on my granpa's farm.
When I was a child, writing used to be fascinating and meaningful. Even if it was a task from school, it meant a chance to share. I suppose I was enchanted by this universe of letters and words that allowed me to discover other people's universe and them to peep into mine.
As I grew older I found myself writing only when it was strictly necessary, when I was asked to, for instance, by teachers. I never found it difficult, though. Ideas always seemed to come to mind and putting them together was not complicated. However, the aim was always to fulfil someone else's expectations. And, by the way, I sometimes failed to do so!
Time went by and nobody asked me to write any longer. Having said that, I have turned back to some paper and a pencil when there are too many confusing thoughts in my mind. I guess it has always somehow helped me cope with trouble, reflect on my ideas, ponder. Whenever obstacles seem overwhelming and decisions hard to make, putting concepts in black and white helps me to think more objectively.
Now I am writing as a student once again. I must say it feels good. Maybe I can manage to put together both the amazing world I once knew as a girl and the tool for having it off my chest. As a teacher, I have already started learning from the feedback I get from my classmates and tutors. So, I suppose the outcome will be a freshened-up writer and educator as well.
