"We read to know we are not alone." C.S. Lewis

Once upon a time, when I was a teenager, I implored my mother if she was

absolutely sure she hadn't misplaced any diaries that she may have written. I

longed to know her feelings, to share in her experiences. I wanted reassurance

that I wasn't hopeless; reassurance that these scary new feelings assaulting me were normal. I

also wanted to see the 'real' person behind this woman who was simply 'mom' to me

thus far. I wanted to know that I wasn't alone.

My daughter is the reason, largely, why I write now. There will be a day, far off, when she

realizes that mom is an individual with her own set of experiences and intense

passions. She may want to learn about her heritage. She may ache to

know more of her family, the people that came before her, to help her find her place. She will, impossible as it seems, realize one day that her mom was young once too. (Heck, I'm still young, if I say so!) Most

importantly, I know she will need to know that she is not alone. So I give her my written musings.

Thinking of a topic to write about is an intermittent issue that I struggle

with. I try to keep a journal. To encourage myself whist I write, I keep in mind that I don't need to have

a fantastic, glorified, celebrity sort of life to make it worth writing about. I

don't need to excel at any particular concern. I'm convinced that when I

keep looking for something inside myself that will make me outstanding or

different from everyone else, I'm just setting myself up for failure. People are

people. Truly believing that I am significant and special just for being me, was my single most important key.

This belief was intrinsic, quintessential even, in making my pen flow easily. I know that Lillian, my daughter, will

value my thoughts because they are her mom's. Hey,

I value my thoughts because they are my life experiences. That, in itself, makes

them extraordinary. Just like everyone else's.

There are so many stories I have to tell her; to let her know that I can relate

to her. Of course, I'm not deluding myself. I do realize that when she is a

teenager, there is a strong likelihood that no matter what I've written, I just

don't get it. But I will try, like many of us parents do, to prove to her that I

do get it.

I've written about the experiences I have had of falling in love. The joy and

the rush of a new relationship coming together. Excited nerves, rushing blood,

pounding heart beats that everyone must hear, flip-flopping of the stomach:

these emotions have all been mine. The anguish of deciding what to do and

understanding what I've done have laid heavily on me. Tears of regret and sorrow

have rained relentlessly from my eyes. The contentment of long-lasting love, I know

this well; how it's calmness fills a spot in your soul and makes you realize

what life is all about.

Then there is the art of learning to laugh at yourself. During a time span of

several Christmas' and birthdays, I received gifts of yummy scented

creams and perfumes. Mostly to let the gift giver know how appreciative I was, I

would take advantage of the moment to take a sniff and shower my expressions of

praise on their choice. As luck would have it, I repeatedly managed to either

squirt some cream up my nose or spray the perfume in my face by accident.

Perhaps it was my over-zealousness that contributed to my miscalculations.

Regardless of reason, I elicited hoots of laughter at each family function in connection

with my inability to 'whiff' properly. I think, after a time, the family

just gave me these gifts to get a laugh. I can laugh about it now too, really I

can. I've done countless 'dumb' things. These occurrences no longer threaten my

self- esteem. I want my daughter to know, when it's her turn, that she isn't

alone in those feelings that proceed a rush of red to the cheeks.

My mind is racing now with potential topics to write

about! I am thinking about my first job, events during my high school years, my

home life with my parents, my opinions at various stages of my life, my shock at

how one person can evolve so much! I

marvel at the extremes of very real feelings in myself. I have memories of life being torture, seemingly too painful to endure. Memories of life being a burst of wonder and amazement are also there. I have worked hard, shaped myself into who I want to be. I have learned to love myself. Reading, talking and listening have all been components of what has made me who I am today. I have related to others and felt the nearness of other's hearts to mine.

Although my mother was never much of a journal keeper, she has left her life

stories with me through verbal re-tellings. I try to write about these too.

Grandma is part of my daughter's heritage. And the emotional roots that make up

our family's varied stories are deep and far reaching. Lillian, you are not

alone. Nobody is. We all can relate to each other in one way or another. When

words out of our mouths just seem too hard, write them down. When feelings seem

uncontrollably cluttered and confusing, write them down.

In our journey to

figure out ourselves, we assist our loved ones in comprehending their lives by

immortalizing our thoughts for them to one day read.