Forgive me

For my rusty words, my illegible sentences, my stories that make no sense. Tis the life of a writer. Do you understand? Are you not a writer in your own right? Tap tap we all go on these keyboards, clever or smpl. I want to be prolific and cathartic at the same time. I think it is not possible. So every day for the next 30 days I will sit here, wondering if you care, not caring if you care, and tap tap tapping on this keyboard, stained and worn. Words want to meet you, to caress you, to tickle your ears, but I get in the way. I want them to walk rather than stalk, swim rather than run or brush rather than poke. Space and silence. The desert for me is the epitome of writing--prickly, sometimes barren, most certainly powerful, and forever transformative. The desert makes me wish for a little oasis, one that is full of umbrella drinks and the call of a waterfall rather than the unforgiving terrain of rock and cactus.

So forgive me. As we move through this month I will certainly stumble and beg for water (or gin), and cry for the ocean. But I will also challenge myself to scale the rocks and grab deep into the earth for gems, gems that remind us of beauty and grief and love and peace.