What makes you simultaneously cringe and lean further into a story? What is happening when you say, “Nooooo…” as the story unfolds? What are the beautiful speeches, conversations, and comebacks that you rehearse in your own head—the ones that, if spoken, might just begin to set the world right?
We draw up what waits for us there. Stories, memories, secrets, questions.
The pail rises dripping our truths, our eyes darting with wonder, breath still with surprise, hands electric holding the rope—the tether connecting us to something deeper than certainty.
This is me.
I really am a writer.
This was definitely an impulsive, not intuitive, click.
I’m busy this weekend. And after browsing the judges’ bios and headshots, I felt my deep-South, middle-aged white-woman tethers tightening around me.
When we emerge from the page, we are not cynical. The words have drawn us away—forward—toward growth and compassion.
But during this recovery, I’ve discovered there is one thing I miss when deprived of it: Writing.
So that’s my blog from a fog.
A reminder to stay open. To stay curious. Even when I can’t see far ahead.
To show up anyway
And to trust the page and the pen.
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