I never would have imagined it was so satisfying to be ... ordinary! Nor that I would choose to be a fossicker of life's precious gemstones.

I used to dream of doing something significant, something meaningful, perhaps heroic, with my life. I would dream up fantasies of some amazing rescue, some special achievement. I wanted my life to make a difference.

I am afraid of heights. I would never be able to save anyone about to jump from a building. I can’t swim very well. I would never be able to rescue anyone in difficulties in the sea, or even a swimming pool.

I fear fire, even to the point of preferring burial to cremation. I KNOW I wouldn’t feel it if I was dead – but it’s the thought of being burnt! So, I know deep down I would probably never rush into any burning buildings to save others.

Underground rescue? I could never enter a narrow tunnel; I am claustrophobic in very confined spaces.

How could my life be special, different, full of purpose? I seemed to be an unlikely candidate for any acts of heroism. I resigned myself to the thought of just living, doing my best at whatever I was committed to, and then dying. Just like everyone else.

I hoped I had been a good mother. I had certainly tried my best, I had endeavoured to raise my children to be responsible, caring and compassionate adults. I had persevered when life was difficult. So did everybody else. I was not achieving anything of significance there.

The same with my role as a teacher. I hoped I was making a difference for my students. I cared deeply for them, tried to bring out their best, academically, emotionally, socially. So did most other committed teachers I knew. Nothing special.

When we fostered a disabled child, I could see that I was making a difference in his life. Then I read about a lady who fostered more than eighty children. My contribution seemed to be so small, so minuscule. I would never be remembered for making a difference to one child.

I was destined to be ordinary. Like most people. But my life was rushing past.  I retired, hoping for strength and energy to make some meaningful contributions to my community as a volunteer. Like every other volunteer.

I’d always wanted to write, and as a teenager I had written some poetry. I’d always been good at essays at school. I would have loved to become an author, a writer. But I was not very imaginative really. Although I enjoyed reading mysteries and whodunnits and detective stories, I knew I could not write them. I would never be a best-selling writer. No, that was not to be my destiny, not my source of acclaim. And I was doubtless too old to start ….

Nevertheless, I started to write. Tentatively at first. A few poems, an odd story about my life and experiences, or about my thoughts and reflections on life. I had some success. My confidence grew slowly.

The trickle of words became a stream, and then a river. I spent more time becoming consciously aware of “significant” gems of experience on life, past, present and future. I wrote about what was meaningful to me, what was special or important, about what I feared. The words started to flow with increasing speed.  

I never would have imagined the mix of angst and frustration with pleasure and satisfaction, to be derived from the constant wrestling with thoughts and ideas, words, phrases, and sentences. Each had to be carefully selected, placed with precision and skill.

I never would have imagined the sense of loss and sadness when the flow of words was interrupted, or when the river of productivity was dammed.

I never would have imagined how this constant striving to express, with clarity and freshness, those life experiences which are common to all, was important. For I wanted to make the ordinary lives of ordinary people like me … special.

I wanted my readers to see that although we are many and varied, we are all much the same inside, with the same loves, hopes, aspirations, concerns and fears. Our ordinary lives still have special moments – and we need to search for these as we would search for treasures and become aware of their importance.

I wanted readers to think about the extraordinary beauty of being alive, the wonder of each of us being unique and having something to contribute to life, whether small or great – and to realise that it is okay to be “ordinary”.

There is the precious jewel of understanding when we realise that although we are different, we are also alike. Size and shape and colour have no significance. We are all ordinary, but we are all special and unique as well. It’s a grand concept.

 So, when I write stories about my family and the joys and sometimes sorrows they bring, I know it will trigger thoughts within readers and they will relate.

When I write of my dogs, there will be a response. Every reader will consider their own pets, past or present – and each will draw up some special memories or feelings.

When I write of my travels, or conversely of my feelings during lockdowns, others will identify. We have a shared humanity.

I never would have imagined that there is such a strong sense of connectedness which overrides religion or politics or nationality or any other such divide, and that it could be discovered simply by writing ordinary stories about a mostly ordinary life.

And I certainly would never have imagined that I would now be publishing books with frantic haste, not knowing how far ahead the deadline is (apologies for that terrible attempt at humour). Not best-sellers; just ordinary books about life, with my thoughts, experiences, and relationships. My personal little treasures, perhaps our universal treasures.

No, I never would have imagined how satisfying it is NOT to be a hero, just to be myself … finding beautiful gems within ordinary life experiences and relationships. I am now spending my life prospecting for such gemstones.