A sunny Sunday morning. Backdrop of robins and wrens, chattering and eliding, crisscrossed arias from the tops of maples. Solitude in the house where sunbeams nudge away doldrums.
Almost forgot how to get started. It is curious how a woman who has always limned herself "writer," would resist this actual moment, the moment of sitting down. Opening up. Typing the first words. Turning inward.
Of course that's it: the layered mix of risk and self-esteem. Which will win -- the loneliness that feeds lackadaisical avoidance or the propellers of self-love, belief and hope?
Stay tuned. This feels good.
The soft or shrill voice within us
7 years ago