falling back

Years ago, I wrote every day.  I hung butcher block paper on the walls of my college room and carried tiny notebooks around, all strewn with haiku and half-written ideas.  I blogged for a writing course, and then just for myself.  And then, at the end of 2010, in the midst of my first post-grad year in Philadelphia, I stopped.

As a senior, I took a nonfiction writing workshop and it was the best experience.  I grew as a writer, even more as a reader.  At the time, someone whose opinion I valued too much (and who didn't care much for me, or at least my feelings) told me that my writing seemed self-indulgent, even unnecessary.  I believed him.

And so, I made practical choices about my job and my life and graduate school.  I checked off boxes.

Lately, I've spent quiet time with a notebook each morning.  I've savored the ritual of making a cup of tea, choosing oils for the morning and pouring words out.  I've reread poems and posts and letters I wrote long ago and been so glad to have those moments saved.