Not Writing, Still Praying

Dear readers, friends, family, and angels,

I flick through my phone, again, as if there will be some answer. Some answer for anything, on a Pinterest board or Instagram story, some explanation on a news feed. It's not there. 

When I was a girl, I looked up at the sky one ordinary day in the neighborhood Safeway parking lot. It was filled with swirling gold and pink clouds, backlit by orange and yellow. This is why people become painters, I thought. This is glory. 

Maybe I am a painter, or was a painter in a past life, or will be a painter several generations from now. Beauty does something to our souls, captures us, enraptures us, slows us down and brings us up to something larger than life, larger than death. 

If I knew now that one of the eggs in my daughter’s ovaries would go on to paint a masterpiece displayed in the hall of a great museum, I would press on, without hesitation. I could stop wondering - Is it me? Am I the blessed one to move mountains or change the way the world loves each other? Am I greatness?

If I knew now about this future purpose, I would accept it with joy. Of course I would. 

Those feathers I see all the time on city streets and alleyways really could be from angel wings. The shadow I saw pass behind a cloud could turn back, shows its face, and tell me one of my descendents is destined for greatness, that my purpose has been fulfilled in having a child. 

But that angel doesn’t come. Won’t come. No more than God stops to explain to each Monarch butterfly its life purpose. Monarchs are part of a multi-generational chain making its way back and forth from Canada to Mexico each year, never one singular butterfly surviving the entire trip. They don’t need God to cup them in her hands and convince them that continuing to fly north or south perpetuates their very species. No. They just know it and they just do it. 

I vow not to stop at every turn, begging for a sign, to see my face in a tarot card. It isn’t there. My purpose for survival isn’t explained in an enneagram or a documentary. I just know it and I just live it.

I am greatness in the same way you are greatness. Our joyful noise reflects light through the cut glass of our hearts sending rainbows across the universe. We are greatness, together. 

In case you missed it, which you most likely did, I released my second book, Freedom Warrior in February. This memoir, a series of snapshots centered around my attempt at discovering freedom, has taken up space in a really weird way this year. 

This books explores the year I was at home with my infant daughter while my partner was deployed overseas. It was really isolating and humbling, much like this season of pandemic. The book was written in a series of handwritten notes which I spent years piecing together into story. The book took on a physical form for me while creating it, the pen the paper, the hand, heart, head connection. All of that tactile creation is infused in the words. 

This is why, coupled with a lack of childcare, I have chosen not to do much virtual promotion for this book. I want the reader to feel the words with their hands, to receive this collection of memories with their hearts.

But maybe one day we can meet for coffee and chat or write together instead.  I haven't been writing at all, not at all. Have you? 
 

Thank you in advance for your support,

Gwen