On Writing

We are communicating our experiences birthed from recognition of moments that were only ours to witness, ours to translate, ours to untangle when caught in the web of our hearts. We are the mothers of our experience, mending each wound, gingerly collecting the remnants of a shattered heart, sheltering ourselves until we are able to be seen again, in a never before witnessed light. A truer expression, calling upon dormant qualities to be born forth under exact constellations that we carry forever more.

Each one of us is a prism catching all things, we color each moment of our lives through our endless, singular facets. The artist, the storyteller, weaves the chaos into something useful, feeling the wound in its entirety, and through the deepest exploration finds the medicine within, cupping it in honest, humble hands and carrying it to the surface, for all to see.

When people share our work without permission, adopt phrases, paragraphs, lines, they are attempting to adopt moments of our lives that have required a birthing process unknown to them. When people take our work, it is a violation against our heart, another wound for mending. And we will transmute that, too. We will continue to spin divine tapestries of each experience.

Our greatest intention is that our language strikes the exact chord. Our language could be something that is carried as protection, as medicine, an offering to the world from all that has shaped us. A source of connection bonding many who have not yet found the words themselves. We must honor the courage it requires to extend our vulnerability, for it has cost us everything.

The writer learns to love all shades of themselves, in time. Opening ourselves to this process requires all of us, no stone left untouched, held, understood. This is an act of bravery, an intention to come closer to what is true, for the sake of us all.