I sat to write my column a few days ago, amidst heaps of half-finished projects and tasks. My kids and husband made pancakes in the other room and I wanted to be with them. I didn’t really have a solid idea, which, for me, is comfortable. I often write this way: I sit and I begin.
I started writing about dying my hair and out came something else entirely, stuff from way back, way deep — a piece about friendship, bulimia, strength and self-exploration. It’s the beginning of more, which surprised me. I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel compelled to write about the six years I battled an eating disorder. It felt old and boring to me, a past life I’ve moved beyond. But it turns out I have so much to think about and share. My story is practically spilling out of my fingertips into words. And that’s a really wonderful, alive feeling.
Click to read mama digs: dye.
With this piece, I more fully realized something I thought I already knew completely.
Expression moves
through us
We are creative
And even when
(especially when)
we are the most
open
honest
authentic
we can be,
there are
secret locked doors
waiting to open
Our voyage is mapless
Our treasure is rarely
what we initially sought
What a gift, our time
How lucky are we?
As we gallop
through our life
lessons and love
boil up
right under our feet
every single day
Until our
very last heartbeat
sowing our legacy
into the earth
