I write because I want to understand. I write because I don’t understand. I write anyway.  I write to think. I write to feel.  I write because my body is mostly water.

I write to translate water. I write like I’m swimming. I write deeper and deeper to find my breath. I write to remember I never lost it. I write the silence of being underwater. I write rhythm. I write tides. I write endless grains of sand. I write to honor the twisting cypress trees and my grandmothers. I write because the moon doesn’t give up on me. I write because I don’t give up on me.

I write because I was a child with an imaginary friend. I write to remember her. I write to remember me. I write stories moving through my body. I write to hold them tighter. I write to let them go. 

I write because you didn’t see me. I write because you did. I write to hold your hand in the dark. I write a thousand tiny hearts in the margin of my notebook. 

I write to play.  I write to dance. I write because a song made me cry.

 I write because I’m afraid I’ll forget everything. I write because I’m afraid I’ll be forgotten. I write to leave my children pieces of me to hold onto when I’m gone.

 I write because the world is filled with contradictions. I write because I’m filled with contradictions.  

I write to understand how gravity and time change depending on who I stand beside. I write as one who has been hurt and who has hurt others. I write to understand forgiveness.

I write because my fingers and jaw need to unclench. I write because the wind told me to.

I write because of beautiful journals and smooth pens. I write because words cost nothing and I’m broke. I write lies. I write truths. I write as if you have been by my side the entire time.

I write because I hope you will like me. I write because it doesn’t matter if you do.

I write even though the words must be extracted with bloody fingertips and it hurts and I get angry. I write certain you will figure out I’m a fraud, but hoping you won’t care. I write because sometimes I touch something like spirit, like source, and it’s intoxicating. I write because we are all this vulnerable.

I write as one who learns and forgets over and over. I write as if I’m going to never stop. I write because someday I will.

I write because words, like me, are imperfect, and yet I still love them.

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My good friend Neil challenged his readers to write a list of why they write. I turned 47 today and I decided to celebrate it by answering. I’d be honored if you took up his call and wrote your own list. Let me know if you do and thank you for reading.