It’s all I’ve got, this little slice of time, this breath, these imperfect minutes. I’m in a cafe, distracted by the techno music that’s a little too loud, aware that I need to scoop Lily up from her homeschool ballet class in 19 minutes. I could have kept sitting and staring blankly; I could have frittered, fretted, walked outside to cry, and all that would have been fine… nevertheless, I’m pulled into the center of intention, my urgent, frayed-around-the-edges intention, to write.
To write! To propel myself through the confusion, to let it ignite like the kindling that it is, to channel that heat, that light, sparks spilling over the edges of my fire ring, spraying in various directions, looking for some dry leaves to land in. It’s a reckless, dangerous thing, to choose to be alive.
I have stories, crowded, jostling, waiting their turn to be unleashed, yipping and imploring, following me around, staring me down.
I have numerous tangled paths through the woods to explore.
I have breath in my lungs, a backpack on my back, love in my pocket. A little bread, a handful of berries.
I have unfinished business, and business that’s just beginning.