I had a perplexing thought the other day: my writing is the only thing that brings me solace. Not entirely true. Writing, this crafting of a story, fascinates me. Its meditative rhythm that sooths or its invigorating complexity that inspires, I feel each time the ink is spilt. More than just ink is spilt it is emotions, anxieties, ideas, shortcomings, experiences, thoughts. The words are more than words, they are like freight cars on a train: each one a different cargo, each one baring enormous weight, each one strategically placed. Writing is preservation, millions of thoughts each day and I only record a select few. But why not more? The ones that do bet recorded, what to do with those precious thoughts? Writing is the only way to make thoughts eternal, the only way to give them life.


Back to the idea of solace, writing cannot be the only place I find solace. Maybe it is not solace at all. What if climbing, backpacking, mountain biking, running, kayaking, reading, playing the bass, and cooking to classical music are the things that bring me solace? Is writing something higher? I think not. Rather part of a link. The proverbial dark matter giving structure to an otherwise unstable collection of passions. Writing allows me to expand my passions. I find solace in my passions, writing brings my passions full circle. Writing is the dots on the top of the Legos allowing them all to connect.


Climbing, backpacking, cooking, mountain biking, everything I do has benefited from my writing. So have I. I encourage you to try it. Just write. Spell incorrectly. Forget about grammar. Just put thoughts on paper, something incredible blossoms.


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