How can it be possible to feel so much within one human being that the fabric of the entire world seems to be tied together into a giant knot within the pit of your own stomach?

     Life can get overwhelming; interpreting experiences in a positive light is one of the most important lessons I have learned. If the entire world is going to be stored within the pit of my belly, my body has no choice but to maintain a peaceful ecosystem of beauty, meaning, and purpose. It’s as important to my survival as fresh air, healthy food, and clean water.

     Every experience seems to pull in energy from my limbs–from my fingertips to the tips of my toes–toward the center of my body, creating waves of tension and release. Yoga is how I learn to manage things peacefully. Writing is how I make sense of it all.  At times I am able to create perfect balance, but at other times, especially in times of uncertainty, things can get fairly nauseating. While I always thought that time would unravel the individual strands to reveal an ability to cruise through life on a straight and narrow path, instead the knot has become all the more intricately weaved. Oftentimes, I think the world would be a much easier place to navigate if I didn’t feel life so deeply in this particular way, but then life would also lack the beautiful complexity with which I color the world around me. It definitely keeps things interesting.

     I am a perpetual wonderer, but I can’t ever remember not being this way. I came into the world with his essence to embrace, an essence that composes my entire being.

     For a perpetual wonderer there is no straight and narrow path. In fact, if you find yourself on one, which is inevitable from time to time, you’re probably going to feel pretty shitty about life. It can become suffocating and give you a host of ailments. Your bones hurt. Your brain fogs over. For a while you can put your blinders on, which is just enough to get through each day; however, that can only sustain you for just so long. Eventually, you have to face that intricately designed roadmap you have woven together with every fabric of your being. Depositing all of this information into a series of carefully chosen words is how I make sense of it all. Writing is necessary.

Writing helps me to create a solid roadmap

of my interpretation of the world around me.

     Yesterday I was traveling back to Nashville from Austin when by chance I sat next to a retired Spanish professor from MTSU. “I always wonder about these people,” she remarked. “Just think of how many people are traveling right now to all different sorts of places around the world. It’s fascinating.”

     “I don’t travel much, but it’s always fun to get away. It’s important to gain new experiences and have new adventures.”

     “So, what do you do for a living?” she asked me.

     “Well, I’m a mom and a wife. I have been homeschooling, too.” I paused for a moment, tripped up on my words and unclear about how to make this next claim. I wasn’t even sure if it was true or not. “And…I’m a writer.”

     “Well, what do you write about?”

     “It is always evolving. I used to write short stories, but then I didn’t write for a long time. When I started back it was mostly about parenting. Now, it’s evolving again. I suppose right now it’s more about figuring out who I am as a woman apart from marriage and family.”

     “Are you published? Do you want to write a book?” she asked.

     “I thought about it, but the world is moving in this whole new direction. Everything is digital, so…I sort of started a blog.”

     I was a little apprehensive studying this well-traveled and beautifully-aged face of a woman in her late 70’s who was in another dimension of evolvement in her own womanhood. She was at a place I couldn’t yet fathom; her deepest wrinkles held stories much more expansive than our time together awaiting a Southwest flight to Nashville could hold. For this reason, I cared deeply for what she thought of me.

     “Can you make money from a blog?”

     “No. I mean, I don’t think so. Well, maybe. I’m not sure. The funny thing is, I really don’t care about making money all that much. I don’t want to write for that reason. I almost don’t even care if anyone ever reads it. I just love to write; it helps me to make sense of things; it makes me happy.”

     There was a pause as she looked down into the cellophane wrapper resting in her lap at the remnants of a chocolate chip cookie she had been eating. “I get it,” she responded. “Then you need to write.”

And so, here I am. I’m ready for a new season of release.