Today I receive the sad news that a dear friend’s son has died from cancer. I’ve followed this journey through her eyes as she wrote every day. This morning, I read the big sister’s thoughts on losing her little brother. She calls this entry, “A Time to Dance,” and it’s so hard to read without crying–not just because she’s grieving, but because she’s also getting married in two days.
I’m a writing teacher. I talk about writing all day long. All morning, I find myself marveling once again over those brave souls who take a pen to paper (or a finger to a keyboard) and dare to write because they must.
Something happens when we write. It helps heal. It incarnates thought, and I’ll never get over the mystery of it.
On the same day I read “A Time to Dance,” I read a father’s account of his daughter turning nine years old. This wonderful piece articulates something so beautiful that I can’t believe I’ve lived without these words. I wept for an entirely different reason (or maybe it’s the same reason).
Death and celebration of life–in words–on the same day. I’m so thankful for brave writers.
Has writing helped heal you?