begin again

starting is always the hardest.  it's hard to live up to the words in my mind, especially when i don't use them regularly.  it's easier to let them make me feel worried or scared or insecure.  but really, it's impossible to hold art in.

my son thinks i'm a writer.  like, for my 9-5 job.  he said he wants to be like me someday.  i told him i was a writer for as long as i can remember.  it's what i've always done.  it's what i've always loved.  it's like riding horses or sending notes from the end of my trumpet.  but, oh do i wish i got paid to be a writer.

i have been thinking about origin stories this week and wondering why we need the stories we tell to be amazing.  trying to make our stories the best or the most takes away from the beauty of what is.  trying to live up to the words holds us back and keeps us stuck.  we need to tell the ordinary stories.  they are the fabric of our very real, every day lives.

i have never been quite grateful enough for the adults in my life who recognized the art when they saw it.  who never let me quite slip through the cracks, and urged me along just enough to keep me going, despite myself.  who remind me that they haven't read anything new in awhile.  i'm probably not thankful enough for the little boy who sees more in me than i see in myself.

i have lived a life devoted to the beauty of words.  they are not epic.  they are simple and joyful and sad and lovely. they are the start of a story that will be retold for years to come.  and they are good enough.