I write into being …

I write into being the shape of my grief. Or, sometimes, my joy. I work things out on the page. Friday writing is a special place — just my voice. And yours. Each in its own time.

First thing this morning — 7:30 — so early! My brain was filled with the voices of rural teachers. It’s my job to write into being a year of work, of toil, of learning. To somehow make many snippets of interviews into a quilt that honors the space between and among people I might never meet in person.

I write into being who I am, who I’ve been, who I aspire to be. I write into being, and offer to you, the world outside my window. Well, that’s not quite right. The world exists without me. But I see just a square of it, for most of each day — and  I offer you that square, my view of it. A square of dark chocolate, or quickly made cake, or the raised bed in the garden that might hold flowers or fruit.

I write into being my own view of what is. I write into being my own view of me, in this season of life. It’s just a moment, not something that endures. I write into being a dandelion, a bit of fluff, that might be blown away by the next strong breeze.