My wrist still hurts, and I really don’t feel like writing, but write I must.
And for good reason.
My mom shared a little something with me today. She’s been keeping a journal, too. Earliest entries from 23 years ago. Memories important enough that she took the time to write them down. Memories that she wanted to share with me and my kids and her great grandchildren one day.
So I write.
I hope one day that what I write down makes a difference, whether it’s about an effort to be on the right time of history, or whether it’s about simple pieces of advice, like saving money, not getting overextended on your credit, and surrounding yourself with people that support you and your dreams.
Do those things.
And write.
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I was surprised some time ago while I was doing genealogical research to find out that one of my ancestors was Henry Surrey. This guy developed the sonnet style of poetry writing. Granted, I probably couldn’t write a decent sonnet if my life depended on it.
But we write.
And we try to find something meaningful in the message.
I have to admit, there might not be any more important message to those that follow than to write. Share. Express.
And avoid being executed by Henry the VIII.
Peace y’all.
