My relationship with the process of putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, is inconsistent at best. Yet, for all my failures as a writer, I have always had a clear vision of the types of stories I wanted to weave: stories with color, texture, light, flavor, depth and soul. Stories that create order, meaning, and beauty, where previously there was only memory and anxious thought.
Liminality is a curious state. In my experience, it appears suddenly and without adequate warning or direction, like the thunderheads that roll in against the afternoon heat. Their billows swollen with water and purpose, yet too tentative to shower the earth below. Liminality can be a catalyst for reckoning. It’s also uncomfortable. But sometimes, so is writing. And writing is not just about sharing my stories, sharing myself. It’s the vehicle that carries me gracefully and haphazardly through liminality.
And then, I remember, the moon is just the moon. It too melts away with the stars. This writer is just a writer, melting into and away with words. Weaving stories, finding reckoning. Writing through liminality.