Sometimes I wish Octopuses put ink in my cartridges
Sometimes I think the sun will open and we'll return to spring

And sometimes I feel my energy wad up into aluminum ball
Until I take a nap or practice a jig or play with my cat

I remember days I wasn't afraid to open the news
When I could look out the window and think progress

I can still look out the window
I can still make progress

I a giant hunk of wax rolling down the hillside
Picking up buildings, journeying to oblivion

I can surprise myself
I can jump out my feet and far down the canyon into new parachute

These days are mine
Claim them. Reclaim my voice.

A pile of young women enter the lobby with a clang
The beginning of tomorrow

I can write my future
and remember when I discovered who I'll become

I'm falling in love with my process again, the less I try to fill every minute.

I time travel when I read the past.
I see into my then skin, compare it with now.
I learn about where my brain was and where it is.

I've learned that the practice of writing takes time. A long time.
That having patience and cultivating love
for the act of writing is the thing that leads to authentic depth
and realization of voice that can't be forced.
I've learned there is deep value in waiting.

There is no one way to tell a story, to structure a play.

The act of writing daily helps me know how to move my hand
through a story, an idea, a play or a thought
much more than if I wait between projects.

I've learned I have something to say.
I am an adventure.
I work hard.
I can miss things, skip things and the world carries on.
I can fail in big and small ways, that's how I learn.

For me, writing is not about seeking expertise but discovery, opening, humanity.
Vulnerability is the gateway to connection.
Everyone has a creative voice to unlock.

Listening is a difficult art that requires great patience
and ability to resist interrupting, speaking, offering advice.

I've learned that I love to use giant weather-based catastrophes in my work,
often representing some big world or personal event.
I've learned that the personal is political.
That my tendency to assume factors about people and situations
is a habit that I must continue to break.
That as a white person I have extreme advantage that is unfair,
but I can use that agency to open up space for the targeted.

I've learned that we can make something beautiful together through art,
and that I love collaborations even though they are difficult.
I've learned that writing is hard and I will always do it.

Heart is a blubbery mess of whole skin
An aching, frustrated chord on the ukulele
And also piano, guitar, bass
Or a long minor key on cello
Heart wants connection
Shakes for bravery
Sound of a single coin rattling tin cup
Heart sees every color under sky
And over
In the vast universe beyond
We are small
Heart contained in my fist
And massive, oceans deep
Vast, interstellar dreams run million miles
Arrows point in every direction
Hot chocolate kisses spill out wrappers
Heart brushes eyelashes
Sticky hands stuck faces
Watching out windows, radiate sunshine
Reflect back at me the rain off clouds the sugar glass panes
Heart walks grounds where Dad lies
Waiting
His wife still here, beating
A-Thump-A-Thump-A-Thump
Heart's ears capturing news
Remember feasting lunchtime sandwiches running acres wide
Backside damp from marshland lawns
Blue string knotted tight round finger
Falling forward into forever yeses
A ball of wax slipping through fingers
Blots away cheek tears
Heart is a feverish night
A journey into great beyond
Side-by-side by fire