The Healing Powers of Literacy

March is literacy month. It’s a great time to recognize and acknowledge the gift of reading and writing.

On a shelf in my basement sits a clear bin, filled to the top with objects that tell a story. A pair of oversized rose-rimmed glasses, prescribed after intentionally failing an eye exam. Headgear that made me look even more awkward than my 10-year-old self. Report cards with marks that reflect my love for school up until seventh grade, at which time my love for social gatherings and boys led to a decline in my academic achievements (I blame boys as the reason I didn’t go to Boston College!!). A dance outfit that was only admired by others from my seat in an auditorium, because I was too afraid to go on stage. Pictures of me with short hair, feathered hair, and hair that stood six inches off my head. Certificates of honorable mention, to make me feel better about not actually making a team. Trophies representing teams I was a part of. And artwork, participation ribbons, etc.

This box holds pieces of who I am and where I came from. Every item created an experience or a feeling that led to another, and another, and another. I believe there is no such thing as coincidence, and therefore these perfectly placed pieces of my life have led me to the beautiful life I live today. Many of the pieces are so far from perfect and beautiful—in fact they represent fear, confusion, anxiety, worry, and uncertainty—but they were absolutely necessary to get me where I needed to go.

Perhaps the most coveted and cherished items in the bin are poems and stories I wrote.
I began writing for enjoyment in fourth grade: I would peel off to the closet of Mr. Tate’s classroom, often with my friend Carrie Secor, to write plays, stories, and skits. Sometimes the teacher couldn’t “pass up” our request to perform our wonderful plays, and before you knew it we were on stage in the auditorium. About a year later, in fifth grade, I began writing as a way to process the pieces of life that caused me fear, confusion, and uncertainty. I would write about the addiction of a loved one, the conflicts that it created, and the sadness and angst that often overwhelmed me because of it. I continued to write through middle school—possibly the most vulnerable, awkward, self-critical, and judgmental time in my life. Thirty-four years later I can recall many lines from my 10-year-old poems and 13-year-old pleas for help. My writing completely lacked any type of formal format or proper grammar—in fact it still doesn’t, thank goodness for editors! I merely took my thoughts to paper, with my pen as my vehicle, and I created my own form of therapy. For me, writing creates a freedom, a security, a sense of relief, and most importantly an outlet. Writing for me was, and still is, my way to process. I’ve seen several therapists in my life but no one compares to my pen and paper.

Writing A Friendship Forever helped me get through the most difficult death I have ever experienced—that of Trey. I was able to take the questions and feelings I had around Trey’s death and explore them, which provided a degree of healing. I started Five Paths Publishing because my family has five members, and although we each come from the same source, we are each heading down our own path. All “these pieces” have set me on my current path. This is where I am supposed to be. The path is littered with branches and rocks, it winds and dips, and sometimes the hills are so high that I need a push to climb them. Writing is my push. I feel so much lighter when the words are on paper and out of my head. And when I am lighter I can ascend the hills that come before me.

This March I give a shout out to literacy:
THANK YOU, LITERACY—you continue to guide and heal me!!