Why I write… here’s the short answer to a question that took years to understand. Writing is fresh air to my soul. It removes the fog of confusion. It simplifies the complicated. It finds words when the voice can’t. It reaches into one’s inner self – sometimes obscured by a cluttered conscious. It shows us and others who we are.

Here’s the longer version. I’ve been criticized for “living in the past.” I get prickly when I hear it. I asked myself, “Do I really live in the past as some say? Do I go there for a visit like a pilgrimage to childhood days? Or do I pick through the piles of half-forgotten memories in search for nuggets of wisdom?” I have to admit being guilty to all three, but “living in the past” does not earn 100% of the “why.” The past is a rich source of wisdom.

I am a ponderer. I think deeply and carefully about things. I drive “black or white” thinkers nuts because being a ponderer, I live in the vast wonderland of the grey zone where options are boundless. My penchant for writing has no single origin. Writing is my pipeline to understanding and articulating my feelings. It’s where I go to sort out confusion. It’s how I share my message with the world.

I was born during World War II. The culture of the time was to mind one’s own business. It was impolite to ask others about their lives when they might prefer not to share it. After my father and I grew out of our parent-child era, our conversations luxuriated in the present but venturing into the fields of his past was taboo. Years later, I realized we didn’t have enough of the right conversations. Could I have broken through the culture barrier? I never learned about what made Pop my pop.

I found myself walking on a crushed coral road, moments before sunrise on a remote Bahamas island. I was furious with God for taking my spouse and mad for being in a job where I was pulverized by unnecessary pressure, false urgencies, and political bullying. I was certain I was being punished for the sins of my past. I looked to the west to see the waxing moon against the milky morning sky. I faced it with conviction. “You know, I’m really not a bad guy.” A reassuring voice filled my head. “No one said you were.” I felt cloaked in the warming sense of peace. Those words could not have been mine – the angry sword in my hand had poisoned me beyond an ability to be soothed by my own words. Without questioning my sanity, I was convinced I was being guided by my higher power. “What shall I do?” “Go back and write.” “Write what?” “Just go back and write.” For the next few weeks I was up at dawn sitting on a rock by the sea… writing fast and furiously to make sure I captured all that buzzed in my head. My bad handwriting and dyslexia could hardly keep up. Months later, I found my journal and read it for the first time. What made no sense at the time presented a clear picture –anger choked my intellect yet only I had the power to do something about it. This is where I learned the power of writing when I turned my thoughts inward to figure things out.

My young children placed me high on a pedestal. I never liked being up there. Heights frighten me. Every time I tried to break it down, they reconstructed it. I was their protector. I made their world safe. I soothed their fears, tended to their wounds, wiped their tears. As they became adults, I wanted to become a person to them, not just a pedestal-sitting father. I found myself imprisoned by an outdated culture of secrecy that hindered me from learning about others – a secrecy that would also prevent my children from learning about me. Good or bad, I owed them the knowledge of who I was. I owed it to myself as well. Writing gave me the courage to acknowledge my strengths and allow my flaws to be exposed. I broke the pedestal. My adult children began knowing me, the person, and I found a better life path.

 Writing dares me to ask myself the hard “why” questions. I accept that I am human and have had my share of blunders, poor choices, and misguided decisions. I no longer allow past mistakes to haunt me. I accept them and move on. They no longer follow me like a menacing stalker.

Thus far, I have written three books, and the themes resonate the same message about connection with self and others. It’s the message I wish to share – to make a dent in a troubled world. It’s a message that would be deaf to me without a pen and the will to write.