February 4th, 2003 § 4 comments

I was nine then, enjoying the third grade in a small school in the neighborhood I did live at the time. I was an overly curious boy that loved to read and study, and would spent my days between school and the books I managed to borrow from a reluctant librarian who didn’t believe I could read so fast.

In that particular grade, my Portuguese teacher was a small and beautiful woman called Mrs. Natividade. She had a short blonde hair and an open smile that spoke of her love for her students. Pregnant at the time, she was very emotive, and sometimes that led her to cry in the class. My classmates and I would stand still, not even daring to breath, until she stopped crying. It frightened us to see an adult cry. Nonetheless, we loved her. She was gentle, and cared about us.

She encouraged us to write. I know it was part of her duties, but she did it in a special way. She corrected our mistakes, and sometimes selected some of our texts to read them aloud to the class. It was glorious when that happened.

One day, she asked us to write a text without providing a subject, as she would usually do. I let my imagination run free, and wrote about a farm. The story told how the farmer was losing his crop to birds that would eat the grain, and how he managed to solve his problem. It was childish and simple, but she liked it. She praised my text, and said she had loved it. I believed her. The original text, with her written observations is still in my possession.

I never saw her again after the year ended. But she taught me a lot of things that still guide me to this day. She nurtured my abilities, and helped me to develop my language skills. That first experience with writing became one of many joyful forays in the realms of literature.

As I progressed through school, I developed a taste for writing. I wasn’t a prolific write; I just enjoyed the occasional incursions in paths I had not walked before. I wrote poems depicting the fight of the pieces in a game of chess. I wrote tales about courageous starship crews risking their lives exploring the galaxy. I wrote about my faith, and any other subjects I was interested at the time. I chronicled my daily life in a journal, recording thoughts, aspirations, and fears. And I read. I admired those who could write better than I will ever do, and envied their skill and eloquence.

Time passed. I had to forget about going to a university because of my financial condition. I found a job to help my family, and put my technical skills to good use. Writing was relegated to an even lower place. I never abandoned reading, but wouldn’t write anymore. More time passed. I married and changed jobs.

In the course of my first year in the new job, I discovered blogging. Luckily, I stumbled upon technological blogs, and found aggregation too. Reading blogs became a daily pleasure. I was amazed at the quality of what people wrote. Their voices awakened my long dormant desire to return to writing. A few months later, I started my own weblog. I would link a lot, and comment on things I found interesting. Sometimes I even ventured an original writing.

Meanwhile, I had found people in the company I worked for who shared the same desire for writing. Two became friends. One was a former musician, now working to make a living in an unrelated profession. The other, although working in his field of choice, wrote poems in his free time, and wanted someday publish his already written books.

One of those friends was a blogger too, and had preceded me for a few months in the blogosphere. As our friendship grew, he suggested a joint writing project. I invited our common friend, and proceeded to created a shared weblog were we could dump our thoughts. I loved it. The blog was an outlet to our writing desires. Those friends encouraged me to return to poetry, and helped me in my first feeble steps back into the art. We laughed at our mistakes, and shared our dreams. Writing was once again part of my life.

I’m blogging because I love to write. And also because I love to read what people write. I admire Shelley Powers’ passion when she talks of what she really cares about. I admire Jonathon Delacour when he expresses eloquently what matters to him in life. I admire Dorothea Salo when she shares tidbits of her life that show the human being behind the words. I admire Doc Searls telling about his six-year-old son reactions to the Columbia tragedy.

I admire the other sixty or so people in my blogroll who times beyond count provided valuable insight about things I was interested in, and shared their lives in their writing. I don’t agree with everything they say, but I have grown to respect them. And I also admire the countless other writers out there, in the vast spaces of the Web, pouring their souls into their words.

The Web is full of life. And life tells itself. That’s why I blog. I’m still finding my voice, but I can see where I’m going. Some long lost dreams are real again. It may not matter to anyone else, but I don’t care. I have found a part of my life again.

§ 4 Responses to Why"

  • Bira says:


    when a person overflows its feelings is that to perceive who truily it is, what it values, of what it is made. Its text showed very of you and I believe that can make of this a habit, without fear and shame, when in we show them we make with that the people if approach to us and can make the same, becoming the complicated art of living much more interesting.
    Congratulations for your text !

  • Ronaldo says:

    Thanks, buddy :) I really appreciate it.

  • xagronaut says:

    Living your dreams on a small scale can sometimes be all the scale you need. Pursuing your dreams in small ways every day, or pretty often at least, adds something incredible to your life. You have this deep down feeling that you’re being true to yourself. And that feels good.

  • Ronaldo says:

    Thanks for your words. I really appreciate them. You expressed exactly what I feel regarding writing. I’m not a Writer — I don’t pretend to be — but in whatever smalls ways I can I strive to follow my dreams.

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