I have a tumultuous relationship with words. Sometimes they are easy, serve me well, trip from my fingers like a shattering, sparkling waterfall, simple and pretty. Interesting, even. And they have served me well when the waterfall is internal weeping flowing out a perfect imperfect accolade for what formerly was but internal. A starting point, a resting point, a recollecting point. And I think that stormier part of my word-relationship has been told to be quiet for far too long.

I try to journal, I do. But sometimes my thoughts are too loud. And for a long time they have been dense and heavy and I am simply too tired to hatchet them apart and examine each piece to understand motives, fears, and hopes.

Interesting that the very place I went to escape the word-storms (hot on my heels) has become the place they found me. This blog. I want this spaceΒ to be full of beauty, inspiration, and things I love, things I’m excited to introduce to you. Does that make it light? Unworthwhile? My directional compass is wavering in the tension between heaviness and lightness, but the real breaking is not knowing exactly what content I want to fill this space with.

I just know that I want whatever I create to be worthwhile and honest. Always.


Can I tell you a secret? I am far more comfortable with photography. The why is multifaceted. But one reason is that it so obviously gives the viewer freedom, allows you to roam, get lost in your own thoughts or feelings that a photo induces, to savor a memory or heart-longing it tugs out of you. It’s my responsibility to tell a story with a photo, but not my responsibility if you find a different one. Painting is that way too, I can paint my heart, my sorrows, my thoughts into a painting and then wipe my hands for I’ve done my job, and it’s the receivers’ job to find what they will.

Words feel more tricky.

Like if they aren’t stacked up correctly they will twist themselves into the writer’s own noose. One misunderstood sentence may destroy your whole intent. And for me, oh lo, the danger, because my truest writing so often stems from unknown intent. I could edit myself, edit, edit, consume myself with pristine corners and easily understood metaphors. But the edges of myself want to break out.

I hope you will allow this blog to be a place my edges can show, and maybe we can both be brave together, and you’ll show your edges too. Just know I am on a journey, to catch the storm words, throw them, mold them and sometimes maybe I’ll come close to truth.

“Nothing is as simple as a diary entry, a blog, an article, a summary, a log book, a psychologist’s notes. Not my relationship with my husband, not our marriage. Records are for black and white, not shades of grey. Records state high and low, density, clarity, weight, power. Records do not state the dance of sunshine on the leaves when he pulled you through them laughing, the winking of sun on water at the lake as he kissed your forehead, the thundering of your heart as you lay alone in bed together and the entire world was distilled into that one dark and beautiful moment. Perhaps an index comes closer. A dictionary. A thesaurus.” – Flux Capacitor, Wabi Sabi

What words do I want to put here? What words deserve to be here? I guess I’m figuring it out.

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