Sometimes what I do in my life seems very small. Like one raindrop on the surface of the sea. And yet, as has been said, one raindrop, though very tiny, does indeed raise the sea. So if I continue to get out of bed, continue to pull words together from somewhere within who I am and have the bravery to put them out where other eyes can see and study them, I will have made an impact. Perhaps not a crater, nor even much of an indentation, and no great fanfare will accompany the process. In the early hours before the sun brings on the day and only small nocturnal critters are awake, I write. It's a quiet thing (save for the clicking of computer keys): sometimes almost a meditation, this reaching within myself for unformed words; to bring to life ideas, to clothe in concrete terms what exists only in one person. Me.
It's strange, isn't it--though academically we understand that there is only one of each of us, so often we do not feel that we are enough. Just me. Just you. Our essense without all the trappings. And yet--if I did not get up and write, the earth would be the poorer. Few might mark the absence or mourn the lack, but that's all right. I don't write so that the whole of humanity can say, "Wow! Look at her." I write to give wings to what lies in my heart--small and great things, soft and harsh things, sad and glad things--because it brings me joy. And I am fueled with the hope that those words once honed and polished may slip inside another's soul and give them similar courage to be who they are and to know they are enough. I'm content with this hope, this knowledge that a seed sown will bring forth a harvest according to its kind. I write for the one child, the one adult, the one fellow sojourner, that they may gain courage to continue to be who they were made to be, and that we all might know and understand that truly, one raindrop raises the sea.
And all of us together--we are the ocean.