I love to write.
I need to write.
Writing helps me vent my emotions and rearrange them. It’s the reason I started and maintained my former (flemish) blog, and I do believe in some ways it has kept me emotionally sane during some troubled years, pre and post adoption.
I admit I even love to read my own posts to reconsider old grief and joy. A bit narcistic maybe. But mostly it’s about digging up memories. Reading my old blog is like going through a photo album.
I’ve called writing an addiction. Maybe it is. But so far, it’s mostly proven a healthy one. Writing makes me pop my bubble of selfpity every once in a while. It forces me to focus on lessons learned.
So when our Penguin is suffering from being a not so average seven year old, I encourage him to write as well. Especially when he’s not in a talkative mood. I tell him he might want to start writing, about anything.
Sometimes he does. Sometimes he just goes off climbing a tree or annoying his little sister.
Sometimes he actually writes stories. Sometimes he rather writes down the length of the Great Wall of China.
This evening, I was inspired by Sophie and Grace to try it once again. To my surprise, he immediately agreed.
We sat side by side on the couch, my Penguin and I. He had his daddy’s laptop, I had mine.
I wrote something formal. A letter of thanks to the gracious sponsors of ongoing projects in Ethiopia.
He wrote something amazing.
the fairy and the bubble
once upon a time there was a fairy
she always wanted to be alone and the other fairies didn’t like that
so she made a bubble around herself but then the bubble went up and she didn’t notice she was going higher and higher and higher
the bubble bounced against a rainy cloud and then it rained down and then the bubble broke
luckily the fairy had wings so she could fly away
and she flew back home
her family had missed her like crazy
the fairyfamily made her a fake bubble, for her room
there, she could always be alone when she wanted to and when she was angry
but she could never drift off by accident again
It’s a pity I couldn’t properly translate his unique seven-year-old’s spelling to English.
They make me appreciate his vulnerability even more.