Dear Home, I miss you. I miss what you used to give me: shelter, warmth, and security. I miss running up and down your steps—taking the stairs two at a time and always jumping down from three up (much to … Continue reading
I recently rediscovered one of my mother’s DayMinder appointment books. It’s from 1998. Back then the Twin Towers still had three years left. We were watching Seventh Heaven, ER, and Friends. I was a sophomore in college—my brother and sister … Continue reading
As an only child for seven years, writing was one of my first companions—after stuffed animals and Barbie dolls, that is. And unlike my imaginary friends (of which I had many), words were tangible and ostensibly powerful. Even then I loved that words are adaptable to any situation; and there are always more to discover and add to my collection. Finding a fantastic new word is like receiving a gift from a secret admirer—and the gift suits you perfectly—a new possession so apt it feels old.
As an adult, I still enjoy playing with words. They can be as supple as Play-Doh and as solid as Legos. Words are conducive to both the serious and the light. They can make you think, make you angry, make you laugh, or make you cry.
Writing is alchemy. It is mysterious magic—conjuring ideas, characters, landscapes and more out of mere syllables—willing something into existence out of loops and lines and curves. Starting movements, forging history, testing paradigms with nothing but words.
Writing is the path, the destination, and the journey. It is an act of perpetual exploration and discovery. It is the vehicle—a means of moving to new and unexplored regions of imagination and reality. It is a mirror, a microscope, a rhythm, and a melody. Quite simply: writing is everything.
That joyful noise was the sound of us laughing, telling stories, sharing inside jokes, and all the while making more memories. That joyful noise was the song you sang while you cooked and cleaned—adding love and tenderness to everything. That … Continue reading
Things I’ve been in thirty-nine years: Miracle Confident Big Sister (twice) Broken Baptized Insecure Dancer Depressed (a few times) Athlete Dislocated Sleep-Deprived Student Graduate Overwhelmed Teacher Mourner Lost Unsure Home (again) Coach Assistant Associate Editor Writer Worried Best Friend Girlfriend … Continue reading
I wonder if much of a person’s fear or hesitation to love is really just an attempt to avoid the pain of loss. Amputations hurt so much because of how attached we are to the members of our body. Death … Continue reading
Dear My Past Self, This letter is to thank you for all that you have done on my behalf. Thank you for every difficult decision you made, the hard work you did, and all the tough things you endured without … Continue reading
Home smelled like love. It smelled of the milk my parents would warm for my breakfast cereal—peeling off the taut skin first because they knew I didn’t like it. Home smelled like early morning wakeups without the help of an … Continue reading
I’ve always been prone to nostalgia. I had it good as a kid, and I knew it. And while I do find joy in the present and try to cultivate hope for the future, there is an allure to memory … Continue reading
Sometimes I wake up from a dream and have to reassess reality. Some emotions follow me out of slumber like an odd aftertaste. In those cases, waking up can be somewhat disorienting. I must discern reality from reverie. Perhaps it … Continue reading