It’s been more than 50 days since my last post about waiting and I’m still —

Waiting. 

Waiting through the last leaf and the first snow fall, the seconds of day light fading gradually into darkness as I finally let go —

Begin to fall and then try to stop myself.  Grasp at anything.  At nothing.  Until I let go again.  And again.

Accepting, out of desperation, this state of groundlessness.  No floor.  No ceiling.  No point of reference.  Or context.

Oh god, a writer without context.  A strategist without a plan. 

I think —

I am nothing. 

And at the same time — I think —

I could be —

Everything.

On the longest night of the year —

I am —

Expectant.

My art flows from the patterns & paths of my lived experience which ⏤ like yours ⏤ are at once deeply personal and entirely universal.

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