I am in my office, sitting and thinking. About all the things. The news, the country, the world, politics, fear, hope, dismay.
Just like you.
And just like you, I’m asking myself: What the hell do I do with all of this? I feel so small, so powerless. Scared. Sad.
So I came here, to write. It’s what writers do when they’re scared and sad and overwhelmed and hopeful. I struggle to find words that will express what is in my heart in the hopes it will resonate with something that is in your heart. To create an imaginary place where we can meet and understand each other using words, using language, to help the heart speak. To create a place to commiserate, a place for comfort, a place to just be, where maybe we can think things through together. Because it’s always better together.
In that spirit of togetherness, I would like to share a secret with you. For the past four years, I have been haunted by a very specific symbol. It invades my dreams. I catch myself doodling it mindlessly in the margins of notebooks, on the backs of shopping lists. I can’t stop thinking about it. (Think: Close Encounters of the Third Kind.) I started doing research into what the heck it meant, and…well, it kind of blew me away. Now I admit to being a little obsessed.
In January 2020, just before the pandemic hit, I had this symbol tattooed on my left wrist. My writing hand, the one closest to my heart. I want to tell you about it. What I’ve learned. What it means. What I’m doing about it.
But right now, I will just share it with you. More to come…
(Photo by Cal)