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.
She didn’t follow a path her parents or ancestors dictated or mapped out for her. She chose her own. And she wasn’t afraid to pivot—sometimes drastically—when she hit dead ends or when the path didn’t fit. She would pivot with the curiosity of that toddler in the hallway, the tenacity of her kindergarten Pocahontas, and the precision of her high-school percussionist.
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