My mind is more crowded than the heated pool at the Forks Motel.
Five months ago, I challenged myself to a week-long reading deprivation, inspired by Julia Cameron’s book The Artist’s Way. Perhaps a week does not seem to you like a long time to go without reading, but for someone like me who begins to hyperventilate if she’s got free time and no reading material, it seems interminable. Anticipating a week without reading – no magazines, no books, no blogs, no catalogues – is like trying to imagine getting through a week without talking. As in, not impossible to do, but darn difficult. And I couldn’t figure out what the value was. Reading’s a good thing. Right?
Reading is something I take for granted. If I’m eating a meal at home alone, I read. If I’m up early, I read. If the babe is taking an extra long nap, I read. At night, I read. (Sometimes all night.) Reading is a crutch, so I don’t have to think about how I spend my time, or figure out whether there is something more important for me to be doing.
During my reading deprivation, I filled my time with other activities: knitting, thinking, writing letters, sleeping, going for walks. It was refreshing to change my routines; I hadn’t realized how staid they’d become. But, there was another, more surprising, outcome of my reading deprivation. My imagination – no longer populated with the worlds and characters of another writer’s creation – went into overdrive, creating worlds and stories of its own. Walking down the street, thinking about nothing in particular, I found myself suddenly struck by images, stories, characters, and memories. I scribbled away, filling pages of my notebook.
I count this as one of the more important lessons I’ve ever learned about my writing (even though it might seem embarrassingly obvious): that there must be space for it, in my schedule and in my creative mind. When I spend all my free time reading, not only do I not have the time to write, I don’t have the energy for it. I might as well hang a “No Vacancy” sign in my brain. My mental real estate is so taken up with thinking about the stories that other writers have created that I do not have the creative juice left to craft my own.
In these too-short lives of too-finite days, choosing to do one thing is always not choosing to do another. What do I really want? What will I be known for? Much as I love books, I don’t want to be known for being a really good reader. I want to be known for having the strength to attend to my own dreams and tell my own stories. I think of my friends who inspire me daily with their dedication and focus: Tara, who has given up countless evenings of relaxing or socializing to realize her dream of being an actor and comedian; Simone, who sacrifices so much of her own time and resources to nurture her non-profit organization; Julie, who schedules the rest of her life around her wonderful writing. They – and many others who are out there living their dreams – remind me that sacrifice is always the way, and there’s isn’t any other. My big dreams will never be more than that until I make a habit of choosing to make them real. As one of my first steps, I’m participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) this November and, if I want that to be successful, I’ll have to choose writing, many times, over many other activities, even when I’d rather not. Especially then.
I’ve already written (here and here) on this blog that I enjoyed Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. I resisted reading it for so long – it just seemed so everywhere, so trendy, so Oprah – but, when I finally did, I found out why readers of all types (yes, though, mostly women) love it. My life is not like Elizabeth Gilbert’s… yet, it is. Reading her story made me think deeply about my own life, about love, about our expectations for ourselves and each other.
And, here she is again, making me think (darn her!). Oh, yes, and inspiring me, too. On her website, Gilbert posted this Ted talk she gave last year about creative genius and where she thinks it comes from. And, you know, my life is not like Elizabeth Gilbert’s, with its awards and accolades. Yet, it is. There is much overlap in any creative life – much to hope for, much to fear.
The speech is funny and inspiring, a morsel of encouragement for a fledgeling, just-trying-to-make-a-go creative type like me to tuck away for a day when the harvest is low. She really gets going toward the end. Here’s my favorite bit:
“If your job is to dance, do your dance. If the divine, cock-eyed genius assigned to your case decides to let some sort of wonderment be glimpsed for just one moment through your efforts, then olé. And if not, do your dance anyhow. And olé to you nonetheless. I believe this and I feel like we must teach it. Olé to you nonetheless, just for having the sheer human love and stubbornness to keep showing up.”
And, if you’re interested in watching the whole thing:
I was so ready to love this book. Has a plot ever been written more tailor-made for my personal enjoyment? A village with mysterious history is operated by a group of strictly religious women called Sisters, who make the rules for everything from marriages and births to punishments and deaths. Only one girl thinks to question their authority, daring to love her heart’s desire and aching to see what lies beyond the fences that surround the village. Of course, one thing for certain exists beyond the fences: zombies, people who contracted an infection that killed them, then brought them back to a hellish sort of shadow-existence. These zombies stink of death and moan with their need to consume the flesh of the living.
Yes, yes, and yes!! I got my hands on this book and cleared my reading agenda for a couple of days. I was ready to be gripped and pulled in to the story. But, I wasn’t. I kept waiting for the story to step it up. Plenty of things happened: the village is breached by the undead, the main character Mary escapes down a mysterious path with a few survivors. But, I kept having the feeling that the real story had more to do with what had happened before. How did the Sisters establish control of the village? Why did they tell the villagers that they were alone in the world? Why did they mercilessly destroy evidence of human life outside the fences?
Ryan hints at these questions, and more. The hints got tiresome, as did Mary’s constant warring with herself and wondering what to do. The writing felt redundant, almost like its sole purpose was to introduce the concepts and hook the reader for the sequel. In fact, it read like a too-long preview for the second book.
I was struggling to articulate my feelings about this to my sister. I kept saying, “She has a story to tell, but she’s saving it… She just needs to put it out there and write THE story.” Then, I read an article by NY Times film critic A.O. Scott about movie sequels. Scott writes, “…such forestalling and foreshadowing was annoying, as if we were being conned into future ticket purchases rather than given our money’s worth.” I realized that this was precisely the issue. I’ve been feeling this way about books – yes, and movies and tv shows, too – that I just want my money’s worth. I don’t mean that I want to put an actual dollar amount on my experience, but I want the creators to honor the contract between writer and reader (or viewer). I settle in for the story; I’m ready to be entertained. To then be given a story that is basically nothing more than hints and questions is like the ultimate, most aggravating, bait-and-switch.
It reminds me of a quote from Annie Dillard that I used to have on my classroom wall when I was teaching writing to fifth graders. Dillard says:
One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now.
It’s a lesson for any writer to keep in mind. Don’t squirrel away the good stuff, saving it for later or holding it like a carrot so your audience will follow along. They won’t (or, I won’t, anyway). But, tell me a good story and, sister, I’m yours for life. Or, should I say, I’m yours for undead.
I feel silly even saying this, but I will anyway: This story, and all content on this website, is my own property. Please contact me if you want to use it for any purpose.
Balloon
The mother had snapped, “That’s enough!” just as the girl shut the door on her tiny finger. The finger stung badly, as did the shock that her mother had permitted this thing to happen at all.
Tears dried on the girl’s cheeks as the mother pushed her in her stroller. They traveled in silence through the park, late for a birthday party. When they arrived, the hosts were surprised they had come at all. Remnants of pizza lay cold in their boxes. The guitar music that had been promised was done, the instrument indifferently packed away.
The mother plunked the girl down on a picnic bench and gave her a juice box. The girl rested her chin on the rough wooden table and examined the half-eaten cake. It was a fancy concoction, with bright yellow frosting. “The other half had a picture of a monkey,” the hosts explained.
The girl sat alone and hugged herself in the chill of the late afternoon shade. She ate frosting. A few drops of rain fell, and the grown-ups began packing up to go.
The storm they expected blew over. The clouds dissolved, and the sun came out again. The girl got off the bench and wandered to where a few kids were poking around on the ground. While their parents lingered nearby, the children searched for treasures and found handfuls of soft spring blooms. “Show me what you found, sweetheart.” The mother knelt on the grass and sprinkled petals over the girl’s head. They both smiled widely as the soft petals tickled the girl’s cheeks.
Holding hands, they said goodbye to the other guests. The host gave her a goody bag, which contained toys and a page of stickers. A woman handed her a yellow balloon. The girl released her mother’s hand, and clutched the string.
“Don’t let go of that balloon,” the mother said. The girl walked along. She did not take her eyes off her own personal sun, which bobbed along over her head. Her eyes were big with pleasure. She glanced over at her mother, all the disappointment from the morning forgotten.
“I’m happy,” she said.
The girl stopped to sit in a tree and watch people walk by. A boy on a skateboard passed. Two kids, racing on their bikes. In one hand, the girl held the bag. She held the balloon in the other. “I’m happy,” she said again. “I’m happy I got this balloon.”
The mother and girl left the park, then, and crossed the street. Almost home, just a block from their building. Rounding the corner, the girl tripped a little. Her fingers splayed instinctively, ready to break a fall. The balloon drifted away.
It moved slowly. Not slow enough to catch, though the mother tried. The girl watched it go with a face full of confusion, then disbelief, and then alarm. The balloon floated away from the girl, away from the mother, over cars and people, bikes and grass, back toward the party, where nobody was left.
“I want that! I want that!” The girl reached up, trying to follow the balloon, straining against her mother, who tethered her firmly to the sidewalk.
The mother, recognizing the impossible, was already picking the girl up and walking toward home. “A hundred balloons. A thousand balloons,” the mother promised. She stroked and kissed the girl’s cheeks.
They opened their front door holding the bag, and no balloon, and the girl’s lip shook again.
I’ve mentioned that I enjoy making lists. This week, I have a pretty typical sort of to-do list happening in my notebook. Items like “buy diapers,” “roast veggies,” and “vacuum rugs” feature prominently. Then, somewhere down near the bottom of the page, in small – yet hopeful – print: “First draft of baseball girl story.” “Write new Huntress chapter.”
Not surprisingly, those tiny, polite items on my list don’t seem to get finished. I’ve come to realize that if I relegate my writing to I’ll-do-it-when-I-have-spare-time status, the opportunity never materializes. I’m thinking a lot about time management these days, so I was glad to see Young Adult author Maggie Stiefvater provide her view on the subject on her (quite excellent) blog. Lately, I’ve been falling neatly into that category she describes of people who claim not to have any time to write because they have kids. Not only do I tell myself that I ought to devote the bulk of my time to Winnie, but I also tell myself that I need to spend my time and energy making sure our home looks a certain way and that we have home-made baked goods and dinners and the like. My idyllic image of parenthood is getting in the way of “me-hood,” and it could quite possibly be the most efficient means of procrastinating that I’ve ever come up with (and, believe me, I majored in procrastination).
There are balloons in the bathroom, for goodness sake, and that’s not even the half of it. (Also, please don’t ask how they got there. The truth is, I don’t know.) Time to give writing top billing on the ol’ to-do list, eh? I’ll get to the balloons – and the vacuuming, and the cooking – but they’re closer to the bottom of my list now. So they’re gonna have to wait, and in the meanwhile I’ll just say it’s festive and leave it at that.
Fireflies on the Water by Yayoi Kusama, Whitney Biennial 2004
Vacation. Sunset. Your kid’s nap. Autumn. Christmas morning. Holding hands. Your looks.
When the end looms nearby, it’s hard to enjoy the experience itself.
It’s hard to be in the experience, rather than wring our hand’s over the impending finale. Whatever form that ending might take – the last chord, the first cry, the complete dark of night itself – knowing that it’s rushing inexorably toward us can prove a distraction, stopping us from lingering in the moment.
Perhaps I should just speak for myself.
In 2004, I went to the Whitney Biennial at the Whitney Museum of American Art and saw an installation piece called “Fireflies on the Water.” The most unusual thing about this piece is the way one experiences it: alone. I had never before had a solitary experience in a museum. Usually, I feel like I’m part of a many-legged organism, shuffling quietly and slowly from room to room. In this case, though, people waited in a line that snaked through much of the rest of the exhibit. People kept asking, “What is this line for?” Anticipation grew.
At the door to the piece, a guard allowed one person to enter the room at a time. He opened the door just enough to usher in the visitor. He acted like one of the Buckingham Palace guards, not making eye contact, not talking to anyone. Perhaps he had been instructed to behave that way, trained so that he was effectively part of the installation.
After about a minute, the guard again opened the door a crack. One person came out, one person went in. The person emerging from the room was dazed and smiling, like someone who’d been kissed rather unexpectedly. Perhaps they had, in fact. I wondered madly what was in that room. I had the wild thought that it might be a fortune teller.
When it was my turn, the guard opened the door and I found myself on a sort of runway leading into the center of a small room. I say that it was small because I had walked around the outside of the room but, if I hadn’t known better, I could just as easily have believed that the room went on forever. The room felt infinitely small and enormous at the same time. This must be what Lucy felt like when she walked through that little wardrobe and plopped down in Narnia.
I walked down that narrow plank, over a pool of black water. Strands of tiny lights hung from the ceiling, reflected in the pool and also in mirrors on the walls and ceiling. When I searched the web to find a photo of the exhibit, I learned that the piece had 150 lights in it – an astoundingly small number, considering that, in my first draft of this post, I had written that the installation had millions of lights. It felt like being inside a living organism, or perhaps being inside the night sky. Not just outside at night time, but inside the night.
The experience made me stop breathing for a moment. Then, as soon as I’d taken a good look around, I thought, Well, the guard’s going to be opening the door soon. So, I preemptively turned back. This is my way, so very very often, not wanting to be a bother, not wanting to take up more of my share. When I had walked the path back to the door, the guard was not there, and I argued with myself over what to do. Should I open the door and leave? Should I turn around again so I could enjoy the piece a bit more? Should I just stand here and wait until the guard does come, surely in just a few moments?
By the time I had decided to study the installation for as long as I could, and turned back to do so, the door did open and there was the guard, along with the next visitor, eagerly awaiting his chance. I smiled politely, and walked out. Once outside, I felt irrationally desolate. My experience was over, and I would likely never get the chance again. Why had I spent it worrying about pissing other people off?
The experience really did turn out to be a fortune teller of sorts. How many times since have I found myself outside the moment, wanting to shake myself and shout, For goodness’ sake, please enjoy this! PLEASE! But no amount of insisting at myself helps me to learn what I need to know, which is how to wrap my arms around the moments of my life, even (or especially) when I know that they can not or will not last. The older I get, the more accutely aware I become that the moments slip by quickly and easily if we let them. And, often, I do let them, whether out of politeness, or fear, or habit. Yes, I might cook dinner every night, but I will never cook this dinner on this night again. I will never have this embrace with this friend again. Never again this walk with my daughter on this rainy spring afternoon.
I think of that experience in the museum frequently. The installation piece functioned as my own magical mirror gate, showing me my own true nature and flaws. This is the person I must love and accept, but I need not let her live half a life. Part of why I’ve started writing with renewed attention is the sense I have that writing helps me to live a fuller, more thoughtful sort of life. Writing gives me a reason and an outlet with which to examine the world, and myself within it.
Writing – whether it’s here, in stories, or on spare napkins – gives me a way to examine those few, flawed moments that I spent holding my breath in a room full of fireflies, and to make something more of them. And that’s the best way I know to make the moments count – even, and especially, those “firefly” moments that insist on glowing for so short of time. Look carefully.
A while ago, I read The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. In Cameron’s 12-week “course,” she gives a variety of assignments in order to inspire and unblock the artist within. During week four, one of the assignments is a week of reading deprivation.
When I first read about this task, I was startled. A little angry, even. Is nothing sacred? I’m trying to give up things that are bad for me – things like processed foods and television and too much beer. Can’t we all agree that reading does not fall into that category? Can’t we leave a woman her books?
I’ll admit it: I panicked. I’m the kind of person who gets cranky if I somehow find myself without reading material for the 40-minute subway ride to Manhattan. I wondered what I would possibly do for the length of a week without the comfort of books to fill my free time.
Then I deconstructed that thought: I have free time. Precious little of it. And it was filled. With reading.
Cameron writes in The Artist’s Way, “For most blocked creatives, reading is an addiction. We gobble the words of others rather than digest our own thoughts and feelings, rather than cook up something of our own.” Her words made utter sense to me, especially in light of the panic I was feeling. I realized that I felt panicky and angry because I had come to depend on reading. Reading is easy. Reading requires little of me. Reading entertains me and makes me happy but, in truth, it doesn’t bring me any closer to achieving my own creative goals.
So, I actually did it. I spent a week not reading. It was really hard for me, but astonishing and wonderful at the same time. When I stopped reading I was shocked by the almost overwhelming amount of time that was suddenly available. Without reading, I wrote and slept a lot more than usual. I also did a lot more of what I can only describe as letting my mind be quiet. It felt restful, the way it feels when you finally turn off a noisy radio or close the window on a busy street. Only after the noise is gone do you realize what a headache it was giving you.
Now, about a year later, I’m up for it again. Like anyone readying for a deprivation, I went ahead and let myself binge over the last couple of days. Starting today, and for the next week, I will not be reading books, magazines, newspapers, blogs, or catalogues. (I know – who reads catalogues? Sadly, I often pick one up “while the water boils,” and find myself still standing there an hour later, closely examining the subtle differences between styles of jeans that I have no intention of buying.) I will read emails, yes, but only once each day; no more of this steady dribble of communication. In the spirit of this little experiment, I will even give up (gasp!) NPR. You heard me.
When I am not reading, I might sleep, write, listen to music, journal, exercise, and knit. I’d love to organize my files, which I have been a messy and definitively un-romantic presence in my bedroom for the past five years. I’d like to go through my clothes and give away anything I haven’t worn lately. Perhaps I’ll even update Win’s much neglected baby blog.
I’m excited about the possibilities. I’m a bit nervous, though not like I was the first time. This time, I’m actually looking forward to the enforced de-tox, the deep cleanse. I’m pretty sure that the next Sarah Dessen novel will still be on my nightstand when this deprivation is through. And, just maybe, I’ll be a little closer to finally writing my own.
This is my desk. You have no idea the shame I feel, showing it to you.
Calling it a “desk” sends entirely the wrong message. First of all, it’s only desk-like in that it is a piece of furniture with a flat top and four legs. In truth, this piece dreams of one day fulfilling its destiny as a dining room table. At present, however, it mostly functions as a holder for the motley assortment of junk that I find in my hands at any given moment in the day.
Secondly, to say that this is my desk gives the impression that I accomplish work here. And, well, that was my intention. But, I don’t. Or, not regularly. Of all the places that I work – couch, bed, coffee shop, subway – I work here at the “desk” least often. There was a time when this nomadic work life pleased me. I felt so footloose, slinging my computer bag over my shoulder and heading off to catch a few minutes of work somewhere. (In those days, that was the important part: that I was going somewhere. Somewhere where no one demanded juice or dumped markers on the floor or wanted to hear Goodnight Moon for the thousandth time.)
But, now, I find myself discouraged by this necessary transience. When I am working, I frequently need some material or resource that I neglected to pack. My computer battery dies, but I don’t have the cord. Or, I need to find a quote from a book that I know I have back at home on my bookshelf. I feel like I’m in a long distance relationship with my creative self. When we first reunite, it takes a long while to get settled together. I type out phrases, then erase them, self-conscious that nothing sounds right. By the time she and I are in full make-out mode and going gangbusters on some blog posts, I glance at the clock and – for the love of…! – it’s time to pack it in and say our farewells.
Lately, I’ve been longing for a space to call my own. Not a couch in the living room, where I sit like a waiting target for any and all persons who enter and want something from me. Not a dining room, cluttered with the assorted detritus of my life. No, the room I envision is mine alone. It’s not fancy or big. But, it has room enough for a desk and chair. It has natural light. It has walls lined with bookcases and an armchair for reading. A table for a snack, pictures on the walls, and a plant or two.
I’m taking this longing as a good sign. It means that I’m finally unsatisfied squeezing in my work in stolen moments, in any old location. I have serious work to do, work that needs dedicated space and time. Virginia Woolf famously insisted that women need a space if they aspire to have any success at their art. So, I’m wondering: do you have a wonderful space in which you do the work you love? What’s it like? If you don’t have one, what would it be like?
Inspire me, won’t you? I’ll be over here at the cafe, taking notes while I dream up my writing nooks in the sky.
It was late at night. Usually I would have been reading a book. But, that wasn’t exactly what I wanted. I wanted to be alone with myself, not immersed in a world with other characters. I needed to be fully present to my thoughts and feelings, not escape them.
I had some thinking to do. I decided to knit.
I’ve been wondering what the purpose of my knitting might be. Years ago, it would simply have been a thrifty skill to have. I would have knit sweaters, scarves, blankets, hats, and gloves for my family and friends. I could even rip the stitches out of one piece after it’s usefulness was gone – say, after a child had outgrown it – and make it into something new. Talk about resourcefulness!
But, that’s not what I do. Nor is it what any knitter I know does. Knitters these days mostly knit as a hobby. They do it to express their crafty sides. For the satisfaction – and novelty – of making something with their own fingers instead of buying it in a store. Generations ago, it would have been unremarkable. Possibly, it would even have been embarrassing to wear hand-knit clothing. Now, it’s a practice that’s been adopted by hipsters. Women with comfortable lives and time on their hands. Women, I guess, like me.
There are lots of other things I could be doing with my time. I could cook – that’s very useful, and it’s also truly thrifty. I could be writing, which is something that I love and it’s also a way for me to earn some money. I could be reading, napping, catching up with friends, or any number of other errands that are on my list.
So, why am I knitting?
The answer (or, one of them) came to me that night as I lay on the couch in the middle of a quiet night. My fingers automatically completed the repetitious movements, my eyes saw the yarn but also looked past it. It felt a little like a meditation, like what I imagine a rosary might be like, if I ever did a rosary. I had some troubling thoughts, working out what I felt about big changes that are coming down the road in my life. As I knit, I was reminded – by row after row of purposeful knots – that sometimes we must allow for, even create, knots in order to make sense of our lives. In other words, sometimes things have to get pretty messy before we can clean them up.
In fact, knitting is a little like writing this blog. I’ve been questioning why I’m sending these little projects out into the hinterland of the Internet, out where few people will ever come across them. I’m realizing that, even if no one reads these meditations of mine, they are still useful, if only for me. I write to know what I think.*
Which, I suppose, is the same reason I knit.
*I’d love to accept credit for this sentiment. But, it was Auden who said something like this and many writers whom I admire have echoed and paraphrased it.
In autumn, the leaves change color in much the same way that my hair grays – in large, startling swatches that bloom overnight. Last week, I came across a tree that was vibrant summer green, all except one large bough that popped bright yellow, as if caught with one arm stuck through the sleeve of a bright sweater.
Autumn means industriousness. The trees are the first to get to work. They’ve been taking it easy all summer, soaking up the sun, and now the show-offs demonstrate their abilities in a final, brilliant performance. Many years on the academic calendar – as a student and, later, as a teacher – have thoroughly conditioned my mind to equate the autumn with a different sort of colorful spectacle – new pens, folders, and binders (remember Trapper Keepers?) of every hue. As the trees turn and the weather cools, my fingers itch for school supplies, my mind thinks, “Well, time to get back to work.” Then, in the uncomfortable silence that follows, quietly wonders, “Doing what…?”
Since the birth of my daughter a year and a half ago, I have not returned to my work in the classroom. I miss the new pens, and that feeling of getting organized. (Perhaps that’s why I’ve spent the last weeks shopping for bins from IKEA, the thirty-something’s version of the Trapper Keeper.) I miss feeling both excited and anxious about welcoming meeting a new group of students, knowing that each school year holds in wait countless wonderful moments of learning and friendship, countless challenges to be met. I miss the change, too, the sense that one part of the year is coming to an end, and a new one is beginning. The school year gave a comforting and predictable rhythm to my life.
Mostly, though, I miss having a neat answer to the ubiquitous question, “What do you do?” These days, when someone asks me what I do, my mouth opens, but none of the words that come out seem to fit. “I am a mother,” is the obvious answer. But that doesn’t describe me, not even close. The world of parenting – playdates, music classes, and playgrounds – is too small for me, too local. I long for a way to affect people outside my immediate circle, as I did when I was in the classroom, or when I led workshops for teachers.
I could answer the question with an attempt to describe the evolving truth, which is that in too-short bites of time while the baby sleeps or plays with a babysitter, I am editing books for teachers, I am preparing to teach workshops for GLI, I am reading books and writing about them, while also putting my own stories – both imagined and real – to paper. But, I usually don’t get that far. That answer is longer and more complex than most people care to hear. Plus, it seems too nebulous to be real – aren’t most mothers in Brooklyn also “writers?” It feels pretentious and unrealistic to describe myself as such before I’ve been published. Well, Shannon, I ask, what’s so wrong with being “pretentious and unrealistic?” Isn’t that just another way of saying “ambitious?” I’m in uncharted territory here, and the truth is that I’m scared of looking foolish. Scared that people might – God forbid – laugh. At me.
It seems that I, too, am caught with one arm through a sleeve. What is this new identity that I am pulling over my head? What do I want it to be? Being undefined doesn’t feel entirely comfortable, but it feels very true. I am beginning to see the positive aspects of my situation; I have the power to set the terms and the goals, and the power to change them. It’s no easy task, stripping down to the essential parts of my life so I can figure out how to present myself anew. Just ask any tree. I hope and trust, however, in the potential to be brilliant.
This post will also appear on Girls Leadership Institute’s new blog Woosh!
