A friend who was set in my path last year challenged me a few weeks ago to wiggle. Just a little bit. To wiggle meant to write. If I want something enough, but fear, weariness, or time were the sticky mud that slowed me down, I should just set my mind to moving at a wiggle pace. Just a little every day and eventually I would get there. She is a champion of my writing, she takes risks and pushes herself and puts herself out there. She jumps out of that airplane daily, weekly, risking and flying at the same time. I believe she was put in my path for a number of reasons, and one was to hold my hand and lead me onto that plane, buckle my parachute, and cheer as I jump out into the clear blue sky.
Because writing is like that for me. It's a rush. It's adrenaline and anxiety and joy and tears and everything all at once. It's cathartic and cleansing and I feel stronger and clearer once I see my words on the page.
Today I went back. I opened this blog and I read entries from the past and thought, "Who is this woman? How did she get so insightful and eloquent?" I truly didn't recognize myself, my writing, in the mirror. And I loved them, the entries, the fears, the thinking and language and I felt them all over again, and she started to look familiar, came into focus. Me. That's me. I can do that. I can write. How could I have forgotten her, this writer? Did she get lost in the grief of slowly losing her two parents over the past three and a half years?
Time's up. My wiggle is done for today. I'm promising myself at least a few days a week of writing time by setting my alarm 30 minutes earlier than I actually need to get ready for the day. So now I will go and dress for Pilates, have breakfast on this cloudy Saturday, correct some papers, run errands.
Thank you, my friend.
