In my particular life, the days behind me have accumulated into a larger pile than future days will be—even in a best case scenario. I look back at those days, moments piled around my feet, and ask myself: what am I cultivating?  What is the body of work I will leave behind?

Another body.  The body I inhabit will leave, one day.  I try to give it only as much (enough) attention to serve me well, as long as possible. No more.  I see my body as a vessel.  The form or shape of me.

Body of work is the point of me.  What I create, share, offer the world, leave behind.

Body of work sounds egotistical for a moment. Until the winds of grace and miracle blow over it—and they do.  Humble. Ready.  Showing up, lighting a candle, welcoming a story or an idea and filling a notebook.

These stories and ideas are also piling around my feet.

I bow in gratitude.

The U.S. Post Office is under attack.  Even as I write that, I can’t quite imagine it.  Mailboxes and sorting machines removed, funding cut, and in my city, Minneapolis, two of them were destroyed in civil unrest.  Whether stilling voting voices, or stealing packages it strikes me as a very tragic harbinger.

The post.  Something coming to you from somewhere else.  Across great distances, maybe.  Full of professions, maybe.  An envelope or box full of mystery—for you, or from you.

Letters can leave behind a story long after you are gone—like the letters featured with this post between my Father-in-law and his mother over many years.

The notion of letters finding their way to you is at the heart of a novel I recently finished.  The sheer hope of writing words on paper and putting them into the world in the belief that someone will read them and feel Beloved.

Letters, and novels, too, represent freedom.  The freedom to share yourself, and freedom to receive it.

Letters can change things.  I dare you: write letters.  Share yourself with people you care about.  Not only will we feel more connected and maybe even loved, we might keep the U.S. Post Office thriving.

This love/hate informs me—I hold it close and let it teach me something.

I made a summer breakfast, partially from the garden.  Then I painted it, the eggs and fresh tomatoes with a bowl of green beans and a goblet of icy cold water.

Still Life with Summer I called the little watercolor.  The meal.  A noun.

Then the adverb slid in, still life with summer.  Here I am, still alive in this beautiful world to do the things I am meant to do.  Summer is still here.  Now.  Not for long.

Then the verb ambles up.  Still life with summer.  Hold it close-in, quiet, full in my heart with its cricket wing-on-wing beat, summer thunder, stretching blossoms.  Quiet yourself. Be still.

Summer, you are a gift.

Waltzing and Writing

I chose the waltz metaphor for finishing and beginning to query my novel, very carefully.

A waltz looks beautiful, timeless, fluid, simple, even—one, two, three, one, two, three.  Dancing.  Story, telling, timeless.

What’s easy to miss, certainly I did when I committed to dancing with this particular story, is this: one, two, smash your toes.  One, kick your shin, three.  Twirl, stumble, fall, quit.  The music stops.  Starts again.

I’ve been dancing with a man named Earl in Woodbine, Iowa for thirteen years.

This day, I am on a chair with the Writer’s Market in my lap.  My husband, David, helped me write a query letter which he reads out loud and we both cry a little.  My writer friends help me edit the letter.

I choose a few people to send my story.  A story of hope and belief.  Maybe it matters more in this pandemic than it would have thirteen years ago.  These are thoughts that run around my mind.

Earl and I, we’ve figured out some kind of dance.  It might not be quite right, or as graceful as I’d hoped, and I know for a fact I have a lot of bruises from it, and I also know I am going to miss him (though he may show up on this blog now and then, along with some of the other characters).  It’s time for a new dance partner, like Truman from a young adult novel, who is putting on his shoes to dance again.

Here’s my waltzing tips, and god knows I am no expert, for bringing a story from beginning to end (no matter how many years!):

1. Choose your dance partner carefully—make sure it is a story of your heart.
2. Strap on your favorite dancing shoes and a skirt that swirls—I found that the pens, paper, and electronic gadgets motivate me in crafting a story and made me want to dance (and write!).
3. Hold on to your partner tight, ignore the pain of the stomping and the kicking, practice and keep dancing, whatever you do—if this is a story of your heart, bring it around the bend.
4. Deeply listen to the music, feel its beat, and let it into your heart—boom, boom, boom—words have rhythm and voice.
5. Climb up above and watch the dancing, follow the patterns and motions across the floor, weep even, at all it took to bring you here, and then surrender to the next partner who wants to take your hand, “may I have this dance?” It’s time.

God-speed, Earl.