​Creative Things

​In 1988 I was born, only a mere ten miles from where I am raising my own family today. It’s amazing how much of a difference ten miles can make, how much can be concealed in those 50,000 feet. Like everyone, my life is made up of stories, decisions, chances, accidents all interwoven into the tapestry of my cells, the architecture of my bones.

The timeline of my life has never been linear. It feels as if there are moments where I am living next door to myself. The stories I hear, I experience, allowing them to seep into my psyche and making it difficult to decide what is mine and what is real.

When I breathe, I feel my lungs expand, the universe animating me with the same air that has been around since the beginning of time. There is no separation. No you. No I. We’re all here, bleeding dots on a map, blurring boundaries that were never really there any way.

These stories are my stories. But they are also yours. His. Hers. They are my grandparents and my great-grandparents. They are my children and belong to them too. Each sentence finding its way, meandering along a dirt path to a hidden space behind the heart, whispering softly of what is beautiful and reminding me as I hold your hand, walking home together.

In 1988 I was born, only a mere ten miles from where I am raising my own family today. It’s amazing how much of a difference ten miles can make, how much can be concealed in those 50,000 feet. Like everyone, my life is made up of stories, decisions, chances, accidents all interwoven into the tapestry of my cells, the architecture of my bones.

The timeline of my life has never been linear. It feels as if there are moments where I am living next door to myself. The stories I hear, I experience, allowing them to seep into my psyche and making it difficult to decide what is mine and what is real.

When I breathe, I feel my lungs expand, the universe animating me with the same air that has been around since the beginning of time. There is no separation. No you. No I. We’re all here, bleeding dots on a map, blurring boundaries that were never really there any way.

These stories are my stories. But they are also yours. His. Hers. They are my grandparents and my great-grandparents. They are my children and belong to them too. Each sentence finding its way, meandering along a dirt path to a hidden space behind the heart, whispering softly of what is beautiful and reminding me as I hold your hand, walking home together.