I spent some time writing this morning. It became a nice essay about the many things I have learned, from all of you, that made me the Work In Progress I am today, the work that will never be finished because it’s the journey.
I know what drove me down into the past, reaching back for cupfuls of mom and dad, brother, grandparents, teacher, lovers. I know why I sought to attach phrases to distant memories that surfaced as I showered, brewed my coffee, and prepared to face the blank page. There are unresolved wounds in my family that have yet to be healed, wounds that need facing today, so I looked into the past to see where I came from, trying to find resolution. My writing is still quite firmly tethered to all of you. It’s hard to type with splinters in my fingers. I acknowledge the holy ember inside me and shift focus.
What I resolve is the essay is nice but not fit to share because it tells us nothing new, special, useful, or entertaining and decide to put it away. I resolve to write a letter to my son with hopes that it will spark the right kind of conversation. I resolve to climb over this wall, stand up on the breakwater where the wind is around 8 knots, temperature rising, and cast my net out there. I’m chasing cobia poems, manta stories, and horseshoe crab songs, so I can bring home a feast. Who wants to read left-overs, anyway?