There is a particular kind of moment, you’ve had them, I’ve had them, where you look around at your life and think: huh. Something is shedding.
Not falling apart. Not dying. Not a state of “transition” (what an over-used concept!)
Shedding.
Like the whole thing has quietly outgrown its container while you weren’t paying attention,and now the seams are showing, and the only honest response is to let it go and grow into whatever comes next.
That’s been my spring.
There is a tent just down the street from our church parking lot. I will park at my church tonight, and walk there.
Canvas and poles and chairs and lights, and a temporary stage…the kind of setup that looks, honestly, a little bit like a county fair decided to get filled with the Holy Ghost. And there is something about it that makes you want to stand very still and just look at it.
I have a shelf in my studio that holds the most beautiful things I own.
Not the most expensive. Not the most impressive. The most beautiful, which, in my world, is a different category entirely.
On that shelf, inside a few glass boxes, sit books I made by hand. Leather spines. Painted covers of deep blue with copper florals, forest green with gold. Frayed silk ribbon for a bookmark. Every one of them contains, page by page, in my own handwriting, lines that were doing the slow work of making me into someone.