She sat on top of the hill and thought about how the grass was sticking her through the fabric of her jeans. She thought about how grass just kind of is and there’s nothing much more she could think about it, except that it was nice for the most part, although a little too prickly to lay down her head.
And she thought about how, if she tugged up a cluster of blades and yanked them straight out of the ground, no one but her and the neighboring grass would ever know.
Sometimes she wished she was like that, surrounded by neighbors but somehow insignificant all the same, so that blades of failure and a sharp stab of loneliness could be uprooted, without question or consequence, making way for a new blade of hope without a sound.
She startles, and stares up at the sky. Dawn is breaking, and with her hands cupped together she offers up a prayer of thanks like a paper crane. And just like that, gratitude flies on white wings up toward morning.
Far back in the forest of my childhood stands a little house. Empty now, it has been forgotten by everyone except the oak trees and me.
Once upon a time, though, its ramshackle rooms formed castles. As my prolific imagination went to work, sunlight sifting through the decrepit roof gave birth to pixies and gnomes. I believed. Tales of their mischievous exploits soon danced out of my fingers and onto paper. They stayed with me until adolescence began to pick at the seams of my stories with sticky, insistent fingers.
I owe that little house a lot. Inside its tumbledown walls I became enchanted by the written immortalization of thought and experience.
Today, the stories I want to tell run along slightly different lines: hushed-up social justice catastrophes, travel memoirs, anecdotes on the adventure of living. Yet my love for writing remains the same. I want to discover, remember, and find out.
As a child, I wrote because my words lent me the beauty of another world. As a woman, I write because they unlock the splendor of this one.