Perspective (noun). A particular attitude toward or way of regarding something; a point of view.
This one word shapes every story that was ever told. It’s the recount of one single event told with several variations because every witness to the experience comes with their own baggage tags; bullied…bully…orphan…mother…child. The list is endless and no two versions are the same. It’s all in the eye of the beholder.
If you had to sum up in one or two words how your experiences have molded your perspective of the world what would your baggage tag read?
As I start to write after far too long of a hiatus, I’m reminded of my closet door this morning and how it ached and complained each time I pressed open its hinges and it fought against the breeze of the ceiling fan. It begged time and time again to be left alone, closed and undisturbed.
And as much as I love writing, after the siesta of summer and endless other excuses of a busy life, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’m feeling very much like my closet door. The insecurities are seeping back to the surface, and I’m struggling against this internal conflict-to write or not to write. So here I am, pushing against the uncomfortable coolness of my thoughts and writing-something, anything. And with each stroke of the computer keys I’m feeling a little more comfortable with being open and beginning this process again. I love writing.