I have this chunk of a memory.
I’ll take care what I store in it. I’ll spend a little more time repairing the lining, a yellow-velvet panel whose double-sided tape didn’t survive the decades. The repair gives me a chance to follow Mom’s hands through a task.
No, I’m not “just a number.” I am many numbers and I am more than my numbers. And I don’t bemoan the numbers that identify and define me. I’m grateful because they center and ground me.
I use the word “magic” often when talking about writing, especially generative writing. And I’ll keep using it. The magic is palpable in generative writing communities. The words that emerge are generative in themselves. They generate a gentle path toward healing and compassion. This practice is a generative clay that generates community.
I’ll write to celebrate the joy I find under a bush or wedged deep inside a pocket. I’ll also voice the heartache. Not to bellyache my way through an annoyance of everyday life, but because I’m not the only one who experiences dark turns and moments bereft of light. Sharing my story lets others know they’re not alone.
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