There are not enough hours in a day to do all of the things I love to do. I have always had a talent for artistic things and have dabbled in many different genres of craft since my early days. I have painted, sketched, enjoyed calligraphy, I have carved wooden signs, done needlepoint, sewn clothing, holiday gifts and teddy bears, decorated birthday and wedding cakes. I have even reinvented some pieces of furniture.
This world of creativity is my happy place. It allows me to play by my rules and recreate the world I see in my head. Sometimes that world is edible and sometimes it merely hangs on a wall but that portal of imagination opens and allows me the freedom to choose how I portray my vision and the medium transforms as time goes on. But the one outlet I seem to consistently rekindle a relationship with is writing.
I may cycle through my repertoire of inventiveness and hastily spend my time with one art form or another but I always come back to the written word. It has been my staple. It has been my constant. And it has been my comfort zone because it was my first real love.
I know words will always be there for me. I learned at a very early age that I could freely express myself through my writing. I could vent frustrations, express buried emotion and free the feelings that yearned to be expelled from my head and my heart through composition or poetry. Words permeated my brain. Words soothed me. Words helped me escape. Words encouraged me to love more deeply than I ever imagined I could. And even if those words did not come from my brain, words still connected me to a world beyond the world I live in every day.
There will always be moments I cheat on my true love with other avenues of creativity but I will always come back to the truest art that knows me better than any brush stroke or any jagged seam. Words reassure me and always have the ability to welcome me back into their world. Words will always be the embrace in which I find the most comfort. Words will always be my first love.