The pleasure in rediscovering a long lost friend.

I haven’t written anything substantial for over fifteen years; not including University and Tafe assignments, Bible study notes and short journal entries or short poems. Besides that, writing was tucked away in the darkest recesses of my mind, seemingly to never appear again.

I loved writing in high school. My last creative ventures were met there with eagerness and elation . The joy of writing creatively stemmed from my love of the classics and my enthusiastic year 11 literature teacher. He had a way of filling the room with awe as we listened intently to the wisdom of one who read and wrote before us. The passion was infectious . The world’s created on the pages by the greats were vast and glorious. Transported back in history or to places of imagining, drama, intrigue and philosophical ideals helped me dream and think big.

That all changed once the sweet days of school were left behind. No longer was writing and reading for pleasure, it was begrudgingly done out of necessity. University sucked out my creativity and left me with an aversion to reading. It was mundane and boring in comparison.

Despite delving into cells and anatomy and nursing fundamentals, higher education has a way of stifling passion for reading and writing. My love of beautiful words, captivating descriptive details and creatively expressing thought was quickly washed away by years spent with my head buried in biology textbooks and research articles. I left my passion and pursued my career.

Years of shift work coupled with developing a chronic illness put my childlike wonder to rest for many years. Tired and weary, pained and anxious I moved through the motions of those years with hope mixed with anguish. There simply wasn’t the motivation to put pen to paper. Looking back in reflection I can see those years more clearly. During them the fog was too thick. What would I have written? It’s far more beautiful to write this side of pain where those beads of hope have morphed into joy.

It wasn’t until very recently that I happened by accident to trip over my long lost love. I desperately felt like I had a story to tell. I didn’t quite care how I expressed it though. Instead, all I was aware of, was my longing to spill words onto the page so that I could bare my heart and journey with family and friends.

My desire was to provide a glimmer of hope to others who had suffered from depression and anxiety or chronic illness and express to them (from the other side of despair) that their future could be brighter. The words themselves seemed rather trivial.

In baring my soul I not only was able to open up about my experiences with grief and frustration to encourage others but I met an old friend in the process.

My friend was exuberant. I had released her from seemingly endless years of abandonment. We’ve since rekindled our friendship and the relationship has blossomed. Imagination never left, I left her and wandered out into the world boldly, ready to tackle the days with wit and logic and maturity.

Imagination and I did meet occasionally, in passing, when my nieces were born. We’d catch up over coffee and create scrap books and drawings and sewing and poetry. My heart sang for joy. I loved those occasions where an old friend and I explored and dabbled and reminisced. The moments were simply too few and far between.

Quite often the days are simply too busy, too rushed, too chaotic for our thoughts to find the opportunity to slip into place. Without quietness and still moments our thoughts can seem cluttered and polluted with the days happenings. Darkness inevitably leads to our eyes getting tired and our bodies weary, but occasionally all those thoughts just want to get themselves organized.

Mine tend to do this just when I’m ready to fall asleep. Just last evening when my thoughts were politely packing themselves into place tetris style, inspiration knocked. This time I joyfully hopped out of bed and snuck out to the lounge to again, eagerly put pen to paper (figuratively of course, Medium gets a girl with the times).

Inspiration is a gift, it can’t be forced like trying on a woolen jumper two sizes to small. I can’t visit it, it just shows up unannounced and declares that my sleep is but a trivial matter at this time of night and we really must get to writing.

I don’t mind at all, the next day, all bleary eyed and slightly groggy I’m more than thrilled to catch up with another friend; coffee.

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