A few months ago a writer friend of mine spoke words I found to be more true than most. He said that over the past little while, his writing and creating had turned from a more personal state to pleasing an audience. He said while he planned to continue writing, he would not be sharing on such a public platform. And while I was sad to see him go, at least for a little while, from an artistic standpoint I understood.
You've been this way to me. My journal is filled with musings, words written in delicate penciled letters. It is in these pages that my heart has been cracked open and all the messy insides have been revealed. I wrote some of the truest sentences I know, pondered life's big questions and sat face to face with the self defeating critic who is also myself.
We bonded over lazy days and stormy nights. We spent countless hours pouring back over the past, and trying to make sense of this thing called the future.
I tried to make amends where possible, tried to sort through the pieces of myself I'd thrown away if only trying to create a bigger, more full picture of the present.
A few years ago I wrote a poem (though I was not in the business of calling what I was writing poetry) about how certain months were meant for living.
August, to me you were this way. You were full of firsts, beginnings and endings tangled together so tightly I could barely tell which one was which and sometimes I think it was both in the same moment. You were the truth coming to me softly, wearing disguises but always the same. You were full of hope so carefully hidden that in some moments I had to blink twice to see that it was still there.
You brought to me a gift, sometimes unexpected. You were personal, revealing layers of myself I didn't know how to process much less turn into art.
And so I stopped writing regularly in this little place. I began writing for myself, on a much more personal level.
I stand by what I said, how some months are meant for living. This month was meant to be bursting and alive, unable to be captured on paper. It is full of tiny treasures I tucked close to my heart and pondered.
Thank you. Thank you for so tenderly holding my little discoveries, and for being gentle with me. Thank you for being my safe place, my refuge, and for preparing me for what is ahead. I feel ready now.
I wish I could hold on to these last few fleeting days forever, but if you've taught me anything it's that we must boldly march forward into the life that is waiting for us, whatever that may bring. There is always more: more goodbyes but also more hellos, more endings but eventually just as many new beginnings. There is always more hope, more peace, more truth, more discovery, more love.
The past few weeks have been a gift, wild and unexplainable.
Dear August, you've always been one of my favorites (don't tell the others.)
The journey lies before me, stretched out and waiting. It is in you I have learned the vibrant enoughness of my own being