Every year the fledglings learn this: at some point the nest of twigs and thistle down and the blue ribbon from last yearâ€™s presents is not enough. The dappled rustling shade of further branches beckon. The wide arc of sky, streaked with wind and sunbeams becomes a daily siren song. And then the day arrives when they must make a willing leap into the empty air despite having never flown before.
It feels like this, linking my writing over at Parent Dish to here. At once both terrifying and certain, it has always been the natural order of things. The work of showing up at the page here was always with this is in mind. Writing here was an attempt stake out a claim on behalf of my writing within my own heart. A way of saying yes, this is possible, this is the future of my longing.
You have to start somewhere to get to somewhere, and this is where I began, words running long across paragraphs, photographs, no-post days.
Itâ€™s incredibly vulnerable to think that more people from my â€˜real lifeâ€™ and my work life will inevitably find me here and find the archives of fights with my husband, the heartache of winter longing, the sallow listless words just before spring, and the posts filled with poop and wonder and breastfeeding that have been my personal history as a new mama.
I didnâ€™t have to link here. Yet not doing so felt like it would be a cop-out. The finch opting to hop about on the forest floor instead of taking flight. It would have reeked with self doubt, not to stand by what Iâ€™ve written. The many thousand words here are deeply personal, but also good. Iâ€™m proud of how this almost-daily practice of finding something to say here has shaped my writerâ€™s voice in a new way. Your comments, and the emails I gratefully receive, have given me the first inkling of audience, and also courage to say more. No point stopping now. No point hovering at the edge of the quivering twig.