By Deborah Wright Yoho
At an age too young, striving to please my parents, teachers and peers, I lost myself. My writing is about finding my way back, to reclaim what I've always known to be true. Truths about the shifting world, about relationships, about the power of time and memory. Most especially, about the power of my own voice.
To my surprise, this process has been peaceful rather than disturbing, serendipitous rather than deliberative, full of ebb and flow rather than effort. I write for myself but also for another, searching and reaching in the hope of finding a mind capable and willing, even desiring to understand me.
For me, there is no greater luxury than being understood, because true commonality is rarer than a blade of grass in the desert. Yet I remember the feeling. I remember seven-year-old Scott, giggling with me under his jacket on the school bus, cocooned in a private conspiracy. As a teacher, I live for the moment when my eyes lock with my learner's in a flash of insight as together we discover a new idea. As a young woman, I remember my own unconditional trust flashing back to my heart from the eyes of my first love.
It is not approval I seek. I write pursuing a sense of rest, of slowing down my thoughts, so that one mind can understand another's by capturing authentically on paper mental images, emotions, and yearnings. Converting mental energy to black and white squiggles on a page becomes a tangible and permanent record of my connection to others, like a musical composition or a visual work of art.