“The first time I wrote in my journal, I felt like I was stepping into a world of vast lands, both unexplored and undeveloped, and along with it came responsibility to fill it up with beauty, and to leave only meaningful footprints behind, for starting my new journal was like being a pioneer arriving in a place of natural, primitive potential where I could cultivate whatever I wanted and I could hardly wait to plow through its pages.”—Portion of the Sea

When I was a little girl and got my first diary, I filled it up before the year was over and needed a new one. At first I wrote about silly things, like the hot dogs we had for hot lunch. But soon, I wrote about more interesting things, like the adventures I was having living in a house attached to an ice-cream shop in Saugatuck, Michigan. In this thriving, summer resort town, there were lines out the door of our shop until midnight and to reach the flavors, I would stand on an upside down bucket to scoop side-by-side with my family. When I needed a break, I would sit in the sugar cone closet and write in my diary. I could hear the excitement of the customers ordering ice-cream just outside the closet. It was at this early age that I learned the significance of stepping away from the commotion of life, of being alone and of stilling one’s mind because here is where the imagination kicks in, and from where, I believe, writing originates!

Recently, my third grade son had to write an essay on what trees mean to him. I found him at my desk with his head in his hands, his pencil on the floor. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me he couldn’t think of a first sentence. I had him lay down, and then I dimmed the lights, turned Beethoven music on and told him to close his eyes and imagine waking up in the morning and going about his day with no trees.

I left the room and when I came back, I asked him what he was doing. He said, “What you told me to do, Mom,” and I said, “No, what specifically were you doing?” He then said, “I closed my eyes and tried to imagine Sanibel with no trees. There were no birds to greet me as I walked out my front door.” I told him, “Quick, write it—you’ve got your first sentence, your second, too!” And from there, from his mind, from the unique and quiet moment he had to himself listening to Beethoven in the darkened room, he produced the most amazing essay and when his nine-year-old voice read it into the microphone at the school’s Arbor Day Celebration, I had to keep from wiping my eyes.

I hope those of you who want to write are not stuck on first sentences. I have English majors as friends who tell me they can hardly write a sentence out of fear of grammatical gods chasing at their heels. I am not an English major, but I fell madly in love with writing the moment I wrote about hot dogs in my first diary. It wasn’t the hot dogs that I loved writing about but the ability to tap into my innermost self, and to have a voice, and safe place to voice my voice that had me compelled to keep a journal consistently all the way through college. And this is how I learned to write.

If you have a compelling to write, write freely and lovingly of yourself; not out of fear. And keep in mind how therapeutic writing can be. It can easily become a friend. And if you want to write something good, don’t get hung up on sentences, paragraphs, and grammar. Dip deeper into yourself, into the flavors and colors of your mind!

“The words a woman writes in her journal are lit bits and pieces of her heart, soul and mind.”—Whisper from the Ocean

“A strong woman knows what to do. She must pick up the paddles and with all her courage row out there, to her very own portion of the sea. She may have to row around in circles a bit, or dive down some, but soon she will spot them either bobbing in the water or resting on the floor of the sea, the treasures she thought she had lost for good.”—Portion of the Sea

When my first son was two years old, and my second three months old, I found myself submerged in motherly joy. I also found myself overwhelmed, not only with domestic responsibilities, but thoughts of what if I never find the time and energy to write again? My first novel, Sanibel Scribbles was done, but now with two babies relying on me for their every whim, I could see my writing, like a treasure, slipping beneath the water, deeper each day.

I knew I had a choice. I could put my writing on hold until a time in my life when I had more time, or I could reclaim the gift (my passion to write) that I believe God has placed within me. I chose to reclaim and I’ll never forget the first time I picked up the paddles, setting my alarm for five in the morning and rowing out there, tiptoeing in darkness to the stairs outside my boys’ bedroom, nothing but the light of my laptop, writing around in circles at first, rowing, rowing, rowing, writing, writing, writing, and the next morning going there again as the rest of the world slept, anchored on those stairs alone—my own portion of the sea—month after month, year after year until my boys would wake and my novel was done.

I now have three children, four books published, and less time than I did before. There are other treasures, besides writing, that I struggle to keep afloat, but I find comfort in the acceptance that not everything can be kept afloat all the time. Not long ago, I found myself battling fatigue. It was as if a tarp had been tossed over me, suffocating my ability to think creatively. I knew I had to reclaim my energy and so I made lifestyle changes that included buying a juicer. After adding fresh vegetables and fruits to my diet, my energy—a priceless treasure—reclaimed! I would now love to get in better shape physically, lifting weights as I once did. The stronger the body is, the easier it is to row out there to reclaim what is ours in life.

At the start of 2010 I noticed that another of my treasures—spirituality—had been glistening less and so I committed to reading the Bible in a Year with a group of special friends. I often find myself reading long after my family has gone to sleep and the house is dark but for the tiny candle lighting my way. Sometimes I fall behind in my reading, but then I pick up speed, rowing, rowing, reading, reading, losing an hour of sleep. There is nothing easy about it, but whoever said treasure hunting was easy?

I’m wondering if others notice their treasures no longer glistening as they once did. Can you see the things you loved doing now bobbing up and down in the hustle and bustle of life, or have your passions slipped deep down below the surface where you can no longer see them at all? Do you ever have a thought, like remember when I use to run, dance, sing, or pray? Remember when I loved to paint, or wanted to learn the piano, or ate healthier foods, or laughed more? Are you ready to pick up the paddles and row out there?

“Whether a heart full of love, or a soul that once prayed or a mind that loved learning, or the body that felt better, they are still your treasures and are waiting to be reclaimed.”—Portion of the Sea