There's been a whole lotta blogging going on in reference to Natasha Bedingfield's song Unwritten. There's a reason for that, you know.
It's my youngest son's favorite song. There is something so endearing about his sweet toothless lisp crooning out "Feel the rain on your skin, No one else can feel it for you, Only you can let it in, No one else, no one else, Can speak the words on your lips."
It matters it matters that it speaks to him, that it speaks to you, that it speaks to us. We're all unwritten. We all have empty pages in the journal, admittedly some of us have fewer pages left than sweet Elyas.
Which brings me to the real topic on my mind...all those pages we've already written upon. We all seem so focused on what we will write, might write, want to write, that we sometimes do not give enough props to those pages we've agonized over, poured ourselves into, or even the stuff we've jotted down on the fly, never knowing until years later how much it really meant.
I have pages, volumes of pages, and you do too. I may be unfinished, but I'm not unwritten. And I'm learning to live and love it. I hope you are too.
It's not enough to know where you are going, you have to know where you've been. And love it. And I do.