I woke up early this morning, before the alarm, writing already. There was nothing to do but go to the computer and start, and when I had to leave for work, the sentences were still coming so I typed a paragraph and a half into my phone while I stood in line at the coffee shop.
I don't know what I'm writing. It isn't fiction, and there's no such thing as writing the truth. For me, writing is what sometimes creates the truth as I know it, and this feels like one of those times. Something is catching up to me, and on the drive to work I found myself crying and relieved to be crying, and I know what it's about but I can't tell you without telling you more than a day's worth of words. Instead, I'll tell you a few other things I'm remembering at the same time, and believe me, I'll keep working on the other thing.
I love this world and what is in it. I love what color is, and tasting things, and walking and time. I could write you a list every day of things I loved that day, and all the places where things were beautiful, and the longer I stay in one place, the more I find to love there. I used to keep lists on Facebook, in the notes section, Ten Things I Loved Today. This weekend it would have been easy, I could have told you I loved so many obvious things, like the bracelet my sister gave me when I turned 30, which I've worn every day since, or donkeys, or telling someone about one of my tattoos for the first time, or people who make pies, or friends who accept help, or the sound of 47 people all making the same song at the same time, or grey days in the Skagit Valley.
I'm keeping track of all of those lists of love, even as I write this long thing about the things that make me most sad in the world, and about the hardest part of writing. I'm thinking about the people who keep us together, and how they do that, and why, and I'm trying my best to be one myself.