Diana Kurniawan

There was never a formula, but I found one for myself. No need to follow, just humor me. 

There would be a point in time when harmony coalesced into your routine in life, that one couldn't ignore it. Just do it!

With me, I found the homeless care work I dedicated my whole life to, became a journey of transformation and love. The healing was irreplaceable that I won't be able to give it up. Slowly, the racism that I was subjected to dissipated with the many hours of loving others of diverse races, religions, cultures and backgrounds. With the homeless, the reciprocity of love became a cycle, as the suffocation and traumas disappeared. The burden lifted itself up as I lifted up the burdens of others. Serving healed me.

The breathing came next as I helped myself, exhaling in and out, tuning in with the presence of my belief and my faith. I meditated with breathing, living with breathing, healing through it. I won't be able to get on without it. Breathing in,...peace be with me, ....exhaling out....peace be with my life. Breathing served its purpose synergistically with my need to serve others while helping others gain solace and wisdom. I took those sentiments from others, their gratitude, their sorrows, their perspectives and experiences as they worked itself through me and empathized with my heartaches. The divine thrusted a spirit of wholeness within me. Breathing blessed me.

Writing paced me. It created a tempo that wounds in cycles each day, routinely, without judgements or confusion. It was as organic as the cycle of the day and time. Writing kept me alive as my whole life faced forward and I won't fall down to the negativities and pessimisms that often bombarded my mind so brutally. The illness subsided as providence entered into my mind, heart, soul, spirit, and life. The impurities excreted on paper as the ink touched the grains of fibers, so my soul's sufferings came out with it. My tears often followed as I understood the origin of my creative process. I gained consciousness, stories, ideas as writing kept me alive.

Serving, breathing, writing. Just write....forever.

I thought it would be easy, but it was excruciating. I tried to not write but the condensation from the day's activities created a mind that was stressed and frugal with optimism. I couldn't do anything else but write. To myself, telling stories, to God...everything.

I had to write, because it was from my need to become healthy. I needed to write until my life ceases to exist, because it was the only way I can live. I didn't know any other way. I always wrote my heart out and it evolved from therapy to life, from emotional cushion to transformative healing, from gaining confidence to soul esteem.

I won't be able to live any longer if I was never allowed to write. It was my soul's expressions and my heart. One could say I was all heart and irrationality, but truly, would you want me to write about everything that was sane and constricting? Let the crazies out!

Writing is life and I write not because I wanted to document anything, but for the delight of my soul for the purpose of my life. I was to write stories, and I knew it since birth. 

I fumbled along the way, and I fell utterly bitter to the ground that my conscience tragically felt shamed as the skin on my body felt uncomfortable and sick. I realized that I had to write it out. Everything, from the depth of my soul. 

I write because I was meant to, and it was a calling, forever. I followed it because my soul craved it since I was in the womb. Just write.

I woke up post-Valentine's Day and it felt serene. The sudden urges to write that came in the middle of the night, upon Valerian induced dreams about pugs, honey bees, and Jane Austen, fueled me. Still working on reading her novels while rummaging through the moving boxes inside my house. Loveland/Berthoud, Colorado, is now home. Never been here before, but after writing much about lost loves, violence, non-profit organizations and public health prevention, I found writing about the unknown was the first step of writing for life. 

Ramifications and recoveries of doubts and fears, I shall call it. Writing helps and heals. 

Write scared, I was once told, by Vanessa-Brantley Newton, a dear friend and fellow SCBWI member. Thus, writing about love, life, and everything in between, for me, for children, for adults, for every part of myself that I wanted  to explore. I didn't know anything about writing, until I wrote. Letting go of the fears of fumbling and failing were some steps. The fears of losing, the fears of not being published, who cares....I will write. While working, while dreaming, while eating, while crying, while everything...just write. Being paid is a perk, being loved is nostalgic, being healed, is bliss.