I quit writing. It needed to happen. Outward was at the point of enough. And enough was encompassing the whole inside of me. Does that make sense? As time shadowy transitions my years, I am growing up as much as I am on. My middle is learning more what it feels like to be thick with the real. It's as if the seasons span my person into space that's made for both stretching and for recoiling. The recoil is just as powerful as the stretch.
I love words. I love thoughts and expression. I marvel at their twisting beauty. Individual & honest. The way their beats drum out for reader. For writer. For believer. For consumer of all things moving and insatiable for the moments we are made better. Words are that for me. Birthed from my pen and ingested into my skull, I rely on words like an anchor. Rock bottom and rooted in my murky waters and positioned with poise to allow my dance upon the surface. I am art through the spellings and annunciations. Verbally. Internally. Brain kept and pen spent.
I realize that public spaces for words have all sorts of genres. I know that the places for holy words are just as important as the hilarious ones. I count on them both. I often wonder what makes a place of writing loved. Longed for. Sought out. And in my sabbatical from this space, I have realized what spaces I need.
I need ones that are real. Ones that offer hope in practice. Ones that show me kindness. Ones that make my sides hurt from silly and celebrate the tears that stream down my face and the salt I feel from my mistakes inside them. I covet those spaces. I am better because of those words.
This space. Mine. It is my anchor. It is my meeting of holy and hilarious. I effort the waves here. Better yet, I enjoy them. I feel the murky bottom too. Between my toes, I squish the unknown of me.
So welcome June. I plan to write you long letters and scribbled love notes. I'll be sure to attach pictures for keepsakes and I won't leave out the real. Revamp camp. I'm all packed. I've even brought my sunscreen and bug repellent.