And listen I did. My dear grandfather spoke very little due to a severe stroke that he endured when I was only four years old, but I “listened” to his mannerisms, his body language, and his few labored efforts at speech; I could hear his love clearly and voluminously. My grandmother, though, had no problems communicating vocally. I was always eager to finish chores, because then we could just sit and talk. Many times we were visiting in the summer, and my grandparents' house had no air conditioning in the sweltering, humid, wet-towel atmosphere punctuated with the dust swirling around from the nearby cotton and bean fields and the Frisco and Katy railroad lines that rumbled close by. It didn’t seem to rain there often, and since the paved road ended right at the corner where my grandparents lived—literally, the end of the road—the dust from the gravel roads going in three directions from there added to the tenor of a worn out house in a wearing out town; however, it was full of life to me—just like my grandmother’s wonderful stories. Stories of ghosts and dreams and omens—all those for another work I will do, especially since I told those stories once a year to my classes on Halloween for all the years that I taught. I must get back to the effect this had on me as a writer.
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Questions to consider:
How many times have you asked yourself or simply thought about the following questions?
Who am I, really?
What is my truth?
How do my actions reveal what I really feel and believe?
What would I do with my life if I could do anything?
What is my passion?
Why am I here?
How can I discover answers to any of these questions?
If you have considered any of these questions, I hope that my experiences and writing will give you some guidance. Please read my blog and comment and share your thoughts. I would love to hear from you!