And so it begins.

I am beginning what will surely be a timid process for me. I have for as long as I can remember, considered myself a writer. However, when left to my own devices and without assignment from professors it seems I am a writer who has done very little writing. I think like a writer. I see the world through the eyes of a writer -- which to me means constantly considering how I might describe an event, a person, a feeling to someone else, how I might give a voice and words to something that is otherwise silent and unmoving. I thought for a while if I simply had a pen and paper on hand I might do more writing until I was gifted with a compact journal that I have carried with me ever since and written in only a handful of times. The last entry in that journal simply reads, "My life is new to me now and I am grateful." Such a sentence is a prime example of the kind of writing which makes me feel comfortable. It reveals nothing, it is ambiguous about both the past and the present it references, and it speaks nothing of the many human beings that have come and gone in what is considered "my life." I have known for a long time now that this kind of writing simply wouldn't cut it, that there was more to say if only I could become comfortable exposing parts of myself which would otherwise be kept private -- even from those who know me best. As I stand before the largest and most important changes of my life (more on that later) I realize that comfort is not a part of that kind of writing. Maybe it will come with ease eventually, but for someone like me it may never, ever be comfortable to be candid with an unknown reader. And so it begins . . . it's just time to start writing.

I was speaking with a poet whose writing I have come to admire deeply, sharing how afraid I felt to write about my life because of the many, many people I would inevitably be speaking about if I wrote with any kind of truth. I have been worried what my family and my friends would think or feel if I wrote my complete human response to this life. I have been overly concerned with those extended members of family whose approval I would likely never have if I spoke with any kind of honesty. This beautiful poet told me that she could relate to what I was feeling, that she had to confront the same concern in her writing as well until ultimately she decided, "It's my story, too." And so it is. I write simply because I don't know what else to do with all that I have seen. My young life is not marked by great tragedy, it is not scarred by wounds from abuse, and it is in so many ways a safe cocoon with which I have had a mostly loving relationship. I do not write in angst or regret. I write because I have eyes which see and because so many of those things need a witness. So here we are. I cannot promise I will always be unabashed but I will try always to be honest.

I started today because of a conversation I had with a dear friend this morning. I had one of those common moments where I think to myself, "I should write about that," except this time it came back to me again and again and wouldn't let me get away with casting it into the bottomless trash can of lost thoughts. My friend is moving from the place she has lived almost her entire life and it is causing unrest among her friends and family who will be staying behind in their various suburbs of Detroit. Even those who have seldom seen her while she is in town are rallying with woes, questions, and caution for her life. I would not likely be one of the people going through grief over her departure because I have seen that life has a way of keeping people together when there is more work to be done. However, I am also beginning my own journey at the end of the week which will take me a short distance out of Detroit for the summer then segue into a temporary yet huge relocation to Sedona, AZ where my parents now reside. So, the fact that my good friend is leaving does not pain me like it might her family and friends who will linger here in Detroit. She said something that in her unique, simple and special way touched me deeply. She said that everything comes to an end in one way or another. We have to let go of friends, lovers, marriages, family and pets. It is inevitable. Instead of doing everything in our power to avoid experiencing the pain of separation (i.e.; not moving, staying in a relationship that has already run its course, keeping our pets alive when they are suffering, etc.) we should just be thankful we had that love in the first place and understand that it's time to let it go.

In my packing I came across a shoe box filled with cards from my recent past. I just went through this same process one year ago when I moved from NYC to Detroit, so it was unnecessary for me to re-read all of the cards or shuffle through the entire contents of the box. However, I found my way to the ones which make my heart uneasy (the ones which used to make my heart glad). My life has yet to know more than one great, deep love and it is this man whose cards I have kept as private reminders of what we shared together. I read his words for what might have been the millionth time and I was struck by the memories therein, the depth and truth of how much he had loved me. I had "forgotten" about it or pushed it so far back in my mind so that I might be able to better understand the circumstances which define our relationship to each other now. My mind's way of coping is to deal in absolutes and I realized I had convinced myself that that love was more of a dream and what I live with now is the reality -- that if what we have now bears no resemblance to what we had then, only one of the two can possibly be real. I had invested my thoughts and attention into the much less romantic, much less thankful, much less open now. All it took were the kind and simple words of a friend who thought at the time she was speaking specifically about her own life experience to remind me how fortunate I am to have been loved deeply and to have been loved by him. He of course will not be the only one to love me as much or as sweetly and it is likely there will be a better chance of growing that love when it is someone else entirely. But I am thankful, so very thankful that we grew what will remain as "our love" with him. With a thankful heart I can bless and accept the past and welcome a new and different tomorrow.

I know now more than ever that new love is on its way, for which I am already deeply thankful.