I know why I want to write. I remember the first time I experienced seeing myself reflected in the words of a writer.
Walking my dog, strolling down a cracked sidewalk, through an old neighborhood in Lubbock TX to my favorite park. Earbuds in and listening to a writer read her own words, I felt deeply connected to her. She didn’t know me, never will, but it didn’t matter, because she did know me. She was speaking parts of my soul out loud. She was giving words to vague knowings and feelings inside me.
Words connect us. They show us how we’re alike. When we find the right words for the previously unspeakable within us, we can connect meaningfully with people who feel the same things.
I want to do that. I want to find language for those vague things we feel on the inside. I want to unearth the language for those thoughts we have that are similar and unsaid.
I want to share them with you so you feel understood too. And I’m trying to do it in the middle of random Monday mornings in my own home, wiping up sticky messes, changing diapers, talking about both God and Spiderman with my little boys. I’m making meals and making meaning out of this all and trying to scribble things down in between.
And then I sit in my chair, later into the night than I intend to, piecing my thoughts together, hoping to make sense of all the bits of light.
My writing, like my thinking and my schedule these days, is less straight indoor corridor and more windy path through the woods.
It doesn’t always seem clear where we’re going together.
But that’s more true to conversations we have in our real lives, and I hope when you’re here you feel that.
The pace and pulse of conversation.
I want my writing to call into the light the pieces of you and me that want to celebrate, finding joy and beauty. Life is hard and full of sacrifice, but I want to acknowledge the laughter and the in-betweens. I want to acknowledge the goodness when it’s here.
I’m thankful that life comes in seasons.
I’m thankful to know that the way my life is right now, as beautiful as it is, isn’t going to be our life forever.
There’s a list in my phone of all the things I’d like to change in our forest loft (that’s the overly romanticized name for the 1200 sq. ft apartment we live in). And there’s also a list of all the things I really really love about living here.
One of those things is: the view. We’re second story and the view out our windows look into the trees on the property. They are beyond beautiful and I've come to appreciate that they are ever-changing.
We moved in late in the year and looking out our windows the land was bare; just a glance and you knew it was November, with a sea of brown branches and especially crisp wintery light.
And then our first spring here came and the trees came to life, blossoming seemingly overnight. Green, green, and green, with the sunlight streaming through breezy leaves warmly through our windows and onto our windowsills and floor.
It seems to make the view more wonderful and worthwhile to look at knowing the seasons will bring changes. There is death and life right there in front me, a reminder that all of this, good or bad, is passing me by, day by day.
Just as spring ushers in a fresh burst of green, I wake sometimes blossoming with desire to become better in all the things I love.
And like winter with its barren land, there are times I’ve felt gutted. Unable to give or grow or do anything or be anyone worthwhile. Unable to move forward in any meaningful way, just waiting, hoping for the season to change.
It always does. These seasons of change call me to remember the impermanence of all things.
In childhood it seems to natural to embrace the present, and in adulthood, I’m relearning it.
Because the present is the only place you can be, and because whether you love it or are just trying to survive it, it’s going to be gone soon.
It’s why I try to do things well at home.
Even in a season where the people who spend the most time with me are 10 months old, 2 years old, and 3 years old, I want to be excellent, I want to be a woman of character behind closed doors, working hard to love well and celebrate the fact I am alive by doing the things that make me happier: getting dressed, filling my diffusers, wearing that necklace.
It all sounds so little, but when I elevate the little things and treat each days task like it’s important in its own right, I truly am happier. It’s my way of honoring this season, it’s my way to celebrate. Knowing soon enough today won’t be here to celebrate anymore.
Life needs more of that, you know? Drink that coffee in your favorite chair and consider it celebration. Chop those carrots and think to yourself how lovely it is to live in a world where what is required of you right now, is making a meal for people you love.
What a gift it is to have minds capable of considering these things, and to have hearts that desire working out the words for what’s happening on the inside of us while we do.
