Several months ago I took Isabel Abbott’s Unapologetic Writing class. I was trying to unlearn all the negative lessons I had internalized about what truths it was appropriate to speak and write. I wrote a lot and kept it all to myself. Most of what I produced was process writing—writing to help me work through the hurt and the anger and the fear. One piece emerged as a manifesto of sorts for my unapology—my taking back of apologies past and writing what needs to be written. It’s not a graceful poem, but it’s jarringly true, and at this moment that’s what counts.
That moment when you remember there is a highway leading away from here.
Today, upon coming home, I threw over all the things that needed doing for one hour in the garden. My patient, long-suffering garden. She has been calling me for weeks. Luring me with the promise of cool, damp dirt between my fingers. Things are growing, wild and untended. They want me not to tame them, […]