Because writing always starts with words . . .
using your hands and fingers to form words on the page,
like a song that comes from the deepest parts of our hearts
without us even knowing. Listening . . . letting go . . .
needing to step away from the keyboard and
the quiet hum of electronics that almost become
a permanent part of our breath . . . almost, because we still have
the choice to walk away, to put the phone down and move
towards the ocean and the trees, who are always so forgiving
when we finally visit after so many failed promises.
The sky knows no judgement, the birds sing for everyone,
the clouds don't discriminate, the cicadas and crickets living
their seasonal dances, knowing only to survive and breathe and
move forward until their season ends.
I ache for more letting go . . . getting back to instinct.
Letting sound and touch move me, like a dance that has lived inside me
for generations . . . ancestors I never knew somehow stirring in my
bones. Wanting to pass something deep and true to my son, his giant
heart filled with possibility. His heart taking in this world
and trying to make sense of the cruelty and dark places,
while still seeking the joy of the sun,
the beauty of true connections . . .
deeply wanting more of the light.