hundreds and hundreds of them—small marks, each an entire poem, a moment shaped from ‘before, during, and after’ and each connected to a thread that gets cut, but remains a part, remains proof that there was a woman, who in the face of it all, chose to make a cup of sweet tea, chose to give her eyes to midnight blue thread, chose to thread the needle—to leave a mark.

they might be stars in the night sky, or women.

i don’t know.

it doesn’t matter.

the mouth of my fingers find them on the old fabric, they are words without words—beauty, and they are here now, part of my history, part of the things that hold my name, and this is enough.

isn’t that what we are called to do, what we are here for—to run our fingers gently over the unlived landscape of the life we are given, to make choices that fit the shape of our own name, to leave things more beautiful—leaving small, brave marks all over the wild places our hesitant feet have dared to tread.

this is what it is.

the standing up inside a life—the choosing, the piercing, and all the small marks we leave behind—all the small lanterns that say, ‘i was here’.

{📷 detail of this little work-in-progress}

things have been decidely rough in my home for the last ten days as we have all been ill with a bad flu. all the tests point to it not being that one, but we have been completely knocked about. today was the first day i had a bit of energy to make some marks and write some words. feeling tremendously grateful for this.