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Looking Back at Life Through What I Wrote


I’m looking back through the old scraps of writing I have saved over the years.

And in the detritus of keystrokes, here is what I find: lines about my mother and watching her die, lines about the family I used to have in all its discombobulated beauty.

Thoughts about the baby boy growing inside me and the little girl who would kiss my big old moon belly. Sarcastic strike-throughs to hide the fear I felt during those months and the boredom that followed when I would spend my days watching shadows crawl across the ceiling.

Notes about the man who would bring me Klondike Bars in the middle of the night when I was eight months pregnant, notes about an occasional date at the sushi place down the street, notes that offer no real insight into what would go wrong just a few short years later.

The writing is clumsy and self conscious–like falling in love, and expressing it for the first time in a dark room lit only with shifting candlelight.

But now, with living and learning, it’s getting easier to write what I feel without relying on metaphor like a black lace push-up bra and ambient lighting every single time.

(Although metaphor and black lace push-up bras do have their place.)

Because through living and learning to trust my own mistakes, I now see there is something pure and exquisite about standing naked in the white light of the sun where every dimple, every line, every shred of evidence of a life illuminated in the middle of living shines on in vulnerable perfection.

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The opinions expressed here are the personal views of the author. Comments are moderated, so use your inside voices, keep your hands to yourself, and no, we're not interested in herbal supplements.

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