Writing is a meditative space where I feel for words. It’s been this way ever since I was around age eight. One of my first entries was about an injured bird I’d made a home in a shoebox for that later died. Through my grief, I wrote and then circled a teardrop that soggied the page, pointing an arrow to the words “My tear.”
Although grief seemed insurmountable, connecting with it on the page made it bearable. Now that I think about it; I wrote and read my memories at my Papa and Mom’s funerals (I was 14 and 16 years old).
My post yesterday, although a nonsensical mashup, provided me a lot of benefit. That I didn’t ask myself to write perfectly or tend to grammatical errors felt kind. And how I created space for the less developed, uncertain, and vulnerable parts of me to roam felt validating.
And I believe it strengthened me as a writer. To my future self; trust how you feel, it will always lead you home.