I’ve never been a fan of how my hands look. I got the Miesner hands not the Schwartz’s hands. The ones that were made for farm work, kitchen work, heavy lifting, not the slender, graceful ones. I once tried to draw a hand and of course, I used myself as a model, I was happy with how that sketch turned out. When I took pictures of my hands, covered in ink from working in the studio, it reminded me of that sketch. It reminded me that I never thought I could be an artist, I didn’t even have the hands for it, but here we are.

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You printed off a rough copy of the book I’m working on. You brought it home, looking beautiful and terrifying, all those pages, all those thoughts, all the stories shared. You gave me my book and flowers. A gorgeous little bouquet of orange and red. It reminded me of Clementine. It reminded me of art. It told me a story about me and you.

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You prayed over me, over the book, you talked about front porches, back porches, all the porches. I remember being ten and swinging on the back porch swing. Sitting in my overalls, looking at the garden, watching the street behind it, swinging, swinging, swinging. I can still feel that soil in between my fingers, sifting through my hands like silk.

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I’ve started thinking about editing more. It’s hard not to think on when you have a hard copy of a book project sitting next to you. Only, I’ve been thinking about a different kind of editing. Self-editing. The beauty in the writing comes when I break down the wall and write. I’m feeling it harder and harder to do. To write that one true sentence. The work of the writing is getting in the way. My hobby of building fortresses doesn’t serve me well.

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One year ago, I felt on the brink, the brink of self-destruction. I couldn’t see a way out, around, through. Stuck. Then it blew up in my face. The entire system – dismantled. Now my life looks different, a lot different, a lot the same. A year from now… I have a vision for it. I have a dream of it. I wonder who will be in it with me.