All but two geese have flown from the field, and the two remaining stand there, unmoving. I wait, perched on the edge of my chair, eager to see what unfolds: will they follow the rest of the flock? Is one injured? Sick? Disabled in some way? Or is this a completely normal occurrence that I have failed to notice these past few months? Their honking a constant companion to our foggy winter mornings.

Aside from the happenings of the geese, nothing is as it was, and I, once again, have made writing out to be a monstrously big obstacle that cannot be safely approached until all is well. But as it turns out, all is rarely well, and it's during these extra turbulent times that writing has the potential to help the most.

Not for processing or for trying to make sense of things that will never make sense, but for the steadiness of normalcy, be it real or imagined: a (metaphorical) piece of solid ground that I can find my way back to, again and again.

Writing is a tool in my toolbox, something I know I can reach in and grab, but more often than not, don't — and not because I don't want to, but because I am afraid of what might happen if I choose to be with it all, all at once, all alone, and so up close. When I choose to write about the difficult thing, the wonderful thing, and the grief that threatens to swallow me whole, wondering if it is, in fact, possible to write about it without actually having to write about it? I mean, is that not what I’m doing right now?

I am beginning to believe that part of my writing experience (as a whole), is to write about writing. Not because I set out to do so, but because it is so intrinsically intertwined with my self-of-self. And yes, maybe I do wish to better understand the ‘why’ behind my relationship to the one thing that keeps everything else tied together. Maybe I do eventually hope to reach some unveiling of: here's why it's difficult for you to write consistently, and here’s how you can remedy it.

Or maybe I already know the answer, and I’ve just been going round and round and round, never quite brave enough to let go and reach for the one thing that feels too steady and too straightforward to be true: go on then, write for yourself!

When faced with something difficult, something much bigger than myself, my priorities crystalize, and in turn, the voice inside my head that tells me I’m not enough, quiets. I am grateful for this, for the reminder than not everything has to be done with the utmost urgency. That hitting pause on a project, not wanting to go to the store out of fear of being asked how you are, or falling behind on responding to texts or emails, isn't a step back and isn’t a you failing at something, but rather, a rearranging of space so more room can be made for what's most important right now.

Thank you so much for stopping by.

Talk soon,
Chloe

PS. The two remaining geese have since waddled their way to the pond, where they were soon joined by the rest of the flock in a ceremony of honking and boisterous flapping of wings. I’m glad to report that once more, all is well in field in front of our house.

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