Dear Writing, It’s been a while. It’s been a while since I sat here with my cursor blinking wildly in my little WordPress window to let my thoughts flow out. My other ever constant companion  – coffee – is here too. The funny thing, it’s not like I haven’t been writing this whole time. I’ve written love letter to my sister becoming a mother. I’ve written email sequences, marketing copy, and have even taken my pen to my notebook to write down the emotions that rip through my body. But not like this. Writing in the dark of mornings in my little window was my salvation for a long time. I spilled out my thoughts on motherhood, recipes that I truly loved, crafts that entertained my kids and myself during those polarizing toddler years.  Picking up my camera to capture the minuet of the day when they grew so damn fast. It was my self care. In a time where I didn’t think I did self care.
Writing, only you and I know all those posts I never hit publish on. The ones that bled on the computer screen. The ones that came from the rawest place of fear, shame and guilt. I came back to my little window and watched the blinking cursor. I wrote some. Then I deleted it. Then I drafted it. I walked away. Again, it was too raw, too real and too in the moment. I was in the draw-down period. The biggest one of my life. Since stepping back into myself, I wrote. I flowed with the inspiration as it came, and I wrote it all down. With a pen. In my notebook. I wrote about my emotions. I wrote from the rawest, roughest places where things changed and everyone and everything seemed to fall out of my life. Where I despaired for the past, had hope for the future, but planted my feet solely in the now, and took it a day at a time. I wrote the darkest of the dark with shame, and fear. I released it and let it go. I wrote in the emotional ladder. One of the greatest tools I had to help me figure things out. I wrote in the high’s. Funny synchronicities that delighted me. The richness of conversations. The connections that felt soulful. I sat in nature in so many different places, and marvelled at where I was. I sat on top of hills on crooked old steps of concrete surrounded by relentless lily of the valley that obscured their locations. But I knew them, from my heart. I sat in the wet sand on the tip of the West Coast in wild salt air with the waves as my background noise and I wrote out the first brilliant steps of my course that has me on my knees with it’s brilliance and resiliency. I sat in my own meadow after the perspiration of digging a hole had dried to create the first stamp for that passport for the same course. And lately, I started to write to refine. To refine the craft of writing itself. To let the writing flow from a prompt from the place of great inspiration, and let ‘er rip. With a choked up throat – for the gratitude my gift never left – my mind dancing alive with ideas, the stories flowed from my pen. You see, writing, at my core, is the Storyteller. My tools are few – a notebook, humbly sized to make it easy to take on the road, a pen, one with a good grip and a bold ink, and my camera. Sometimes the emotion comes first through the photography for me. It unlocks that dimension. And to be the Storyteller, you’ve got to do the most important thing. You’ve got to show up. You’ve got to show up, and tame the blinking cursor or the blank page. Every. single. damn. day. So consider this my email to you, Writing. I’m accessible. I’m committed. I’m showing up every damn day. Let us be prolific. Let us be soulful. Let us be partners again.