The first time I fell in love, it was with dance. The notion of movement and music coming together to produce something new and altogether elevated delighted and moved me. The second time I fell in love, it was with … Continue reading
I think solitude may have been my first friend—the first companion I grew comfortable with. Comfortable like that tee shirt or pair of pajama pants you’ve worn so soft and thin it’s almost not there. Comfortable like cozy under the … Continue reading
For me, there are different types of insomnia. There’s the false rush variety, where my mind simply will not stop churning. Ideas (worries and plans mostly) keep flooding my thoughts like a tsunami. My heart races like it’s under pressure … 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.
C. S. Lewis had it right, in grief “the same leg is cut off time after time.” You hop through life for a while. The pain is acute. You’re in agony. Then, in months or years, the sharp crippling pain … Continue reading
They will say that I was paralyzed by my fear. They will say that I found the situation so overwhelming that I couldn’t do anything—and that it could happen to anyone. That’s what they’ll say, but they’ll be thinking something … Continue reading
Spring is not subtle with regards to life. With explosions of blossoms it emphatically reminds. It bursts with delicate colors. It pushes through chilled earth. It rains. It shines. It shivers. It warms. – Spring is not a modest season. … Continue reading
I love the way trees receive snow, Holding it so generously in their boughs. Wearing it like confection or cotton or a slick lacquer. Letting playful dollops drop when it gets warmer.
The professor held a candle before the class. With a sharp efficiency she lit it, and everyone watched the diminutive flame bend and flicker at the mercy of the room’s currents. Then the professor uttered a few words, lay the … Continue reading
It’s been a while since my writing flowed. That’s the best part of writing though—the flow. Every time I sit down to write it’s what I hope for—the deluge, the torrent—and to be carried away in my efforts. I long … Continue reading