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.
A path of light cut through the space between us. I could feel the connection, the trueness of the moment, the light she already carried.
Those are, and have always been her gifts: connection, integrity, and light.
I’m not close
and I am in the unfolding.
Close and far,
immediate and removed.
We are unfolding
without each other,
with each other.
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.
The page is a magic place where I can turn back time, I can recover the joy, even if for a few lines.
Words that heal.
Words that connect.
Words that remind us we are not alone.
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