The blank page staring back at me-formidable, daunting, frightening even. Words in my head-haunting like old disgruntled ghosts until they makes their way onto the page. But in a way there is no choice in the matter. It beckon’s with an intensity of an illicit lover, an insatiable thirst that must be quenched. Writing has become my paramour. I feel heard and understood, held and alive, and yet there’s an ambivalence. Words that lead me to a treasure trove-perhaps one I’m unsure I want to find. Relics of the past, but will I find precious stones or will they be like the rising of an old hornets nest-buzzing round my head? These stories-it’s as though they have developed early-expanding taking hold, demanding to be told.

I long to know…

To understand…

I’m like an excavator-

Searching

Turning Over

Unearthing

Trying to make sense of the senseless…

Finding my rhythm. I feel like Akeelah in the spelling bee movie as she jumps rope for Dr. Larabee in search of words.

Whoosh

Whoosh

Whoosh

With each twirl of the rope, I find clarity. Words tumbling down forming coherent thoughts-forming sentences one whoosh at a time.

But why? What is the purpose? Will anyone care? I don’t know. For me the longing is connection, universal truths. Maybe not even to the stories, but the truths within the stories. Maybe you haven’t lost a parent, had an eating disorder or a miscarriage; But most of us have felt alone, misunderstood, outside of, other than, or some sense of loss. Writing is my sanctuary, my journey to finding myself, its home, my home. It’s where I process all that I have endured, where I come to understand, where I make peace and find peace. My deepest desire is to provide words that lead someone else home.

To make sense of…

I’m like an excavator~