The Journey Begins, Again

I kept thinking “I’ll start writing again.” Until that paralyzing thought “what could I possibly have to say if it’s not about traveling as the BurritoWagon?” inevitably kicked in, generally followed by the sound of a beer can cracking open and the background hum of Netflix. At least during this past year-plus of global pandemic/shutdown. Which really would have been the perfect time to write – home, alone, day after day, night after night, plenty of Dena time on my hands for doing such things, with only me to distract myself. Turns out I’m really good at distraction.

Then this thing happened. Not recently but rather nearly six months ago: my stepfather passed. It wasn’t that his death brought me back to writing. Not stuff I’d write about publicly, anyway (after all, that’s what journals are for, am I right?). But rather his passing brought about going through my mother’s belongings, a difficult task left undone since her death16 months prior to his. And within my mother’s keepsakes were some of my childhood things, including stories I’d written as a painfully shy grade-schooler. Illustrated, no less!

I remember my second grade teacher saying to me “You’ll grow up to be a poet.” Maybe she didn’t get that 100 percent right, but she did recognize and support my love for the written word.

Driving home after a full day of going through Mom’s things, these childhood stories of mine stuffed in a box in the backseat, I thought to myself, “Maybe this is where I begin writing, again.”

So here we are. Rusty and me and whatever words I decide to wrangle onto a page. I’ve no idea where this will go. Only that I’m doing it right now, and that feels right. Getting started, again.