On the undocumented-

I used to think in order to begin, you have to start at the beginning. What a silly notion that is. The beginning? What is the beginning of a thing anyway. Can you ever really quantify a start?

The moment of falling in love
The unraveling of a love
The confirmation of friendship
The promise of love again 

Is it the giving up or the catalyst which initiates the change--where do you begin the counting? How do you even speak of a beginning with no mention of all that led up to its birthing. Because endings are so very pregnant with what is to come, we often miss the points of origin. We miss that another life begins after the death of a former.

Perhaps sometimes there's too much to record, as there have been whole weeks I haven't inked a single word eternal, allowing time to pass undocumented. As I now write, memory of the unremembered haunts me. But how does one resurrect the forgotten?

At times life is so violently beautiful, rendering the right words difficult to find. It is this late discovery--or rather, delayed--that gives worth to the wait. And so I wait. I wait...And I wait.

I wait for a cue, an invitation to begin. It is here, in this middle space of receiving and waiting I find my points of origin. The defining moments laced with all those coming before: the poignant ones, the seemingly insignificant, the monotony of a life lived-- this is the process of becoming.

Becoming is half of living. I'm still figuring out the other half, perhaps that comes in a later season...

It is here in this season I become that which I was always meant to, and it is the people I've met along the way who I owe credit. 

You are my story, and my story is yours.