The year I was twenty-one I took a leap and learned I could fly. Or maybe glide… It wasn’t my arms that kept me in the sky, but the wind that carried me.
I learned how weak I was. I got lost, I faced monsters, and I woke up in strange places.
I learned how strong I was. I found my way, I killed monsters, and I made homes in new places.
And through it all I wrote poems.
The poems became a roadmap, a weapon, and a shelter from the elements. They were my lifeline. In the middle of a hard day I stopped to pen a few lines. While walking to clear my mind of the overwhelm beautiful words rushed in to the emptying spaces.
Some of the poems I shared, some I kept to myself, and some I never finished.
Somehow the words I shared found their way into other people’s lives and brought beauty to them. I didn’t expect it, but I welcomed it.
But then I left the stack of poems from that era in a corner. I nearly forgot them. They had fulfilled their purpose in carrying me through that hard time… or so I thought.
I didn’t think about the people who hadn’t had a chance to read the words that had helped me. I forgot that someone else might be helped too, until someone reminded me. Until one friend suggested I turn them into a book and another friend added her voice to the request and others caught on to the idea.
I forgot until I started to listen to them.
These past months I’ve worked on the project off-and-on. These past weeks I’ve worked on it in earnest, putting poems in order and talking with an artist about illustrating the cover.
Soon I will be able to share with you the beauty that came from a time of wandering, fighting, and making a new way through the darkness.
Soon that beauty can come into your life too, and perhaps help you find your own way.