Sometimes I fall out of the habit of writing. Days and weeks go by and I am so distracted by work and parenting and cleaning and being busy that I ignore the words. I go through my days as if they can happen without words, as if I am me without words, until my body takes over. Late one night, when I am overtired and grumpy, my hand demands a pen. Desperate for sleep, I grab a scrap of paper and flip my list of Things To Do face down and allow my words to fill the back. Something deep within me –my soul, my imagination, myself — takes a deep, shuddering breath and comes alive again. Writing is who I am. It is how I find myself and it is how I understand the world.

This picture is another part of me, one of the other things that gives me that life. Water. Sun, grass, waves. Enormous rocks to climb and small, smooth stones to skip. Drift wood to drag into imaginary houses, bark to make into boats. Clouds with which to paint new worlds, horizons to disappear into.

If writing is my soul’s breath, this is its feast.


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