As the pen clicks, my confidence falters. The ideas for this story or poem or sage nugget of truth scurry away, afraid that the spotlight will reveal their translucent armor. To learn to be alone is to learn how to rite, or at least that’s how it has felt for me recently. It isn’t the correctness, the merit of the ideas that earn their place on this page, but rather that this just so happened to be where they needed to spill out. With time and practice, sure - maybe they’ll be able to carry their won in a conversation with some eager reader. But before their time in that spotlight, they need some space to stumble around and skin their knees, but my head can be a bit to crowded for that.

I just had a silkworm fall from my hair onto this page. Or is that a silkworm? The little guy who kinda looks like he will grow up to be a branch? And this, just as I’d felt that I’d stumbled on a fun bit of creative writing, ushering my larval thoughts onto a page so they could share in the crisp morning light, mountain air, and too-strong coffee wafting in. That I’d finally hit upon a way to absolve myself the pressure of being a great writer (which I don’t know how to be) by replacing it with being a caretaker for these thoughts who just need a little help before they can stand up on their own. And then a worm fell out of my head and onto this page. That really takes the cake. Okay I’m going to go and put him on the woodpile I made over by the fireplace because I think they eat bark, but it is rather cold today, one second.

Would the day have shown me this new idea either way? Was Wormy a curious little fellow who, reading from the top curl, had his eyes(?) light up at the prospect of these new friends I’d mentioned, excited enough to para sail down onto the flat, lined snow of this page? Probably not - my handwriting isn’t that readily readable. There’s that quote - the one most never would’ve thought could apply to an errant curl worm: “There are cathedrals all around for those with eyes to see them”. I’m pretty sure I butchered the original elegance, stuffing a few extra words in there like the first time I went dancing at that jazz club, my feet shuffling steps on the heels of a beat I couldn’t quite catch. But back to the worm. I guess I am wondering if he played the role of muse not because he woke up among his branch brothers, all four(?) hearts set on inspiring the guy out on a hike with his dog, but because this notebook was open to begin with. Learning to write is the comfort found in the explorer’s heart upon seeing the unknown coast land float toward them. A day which only unfolds as you unfold it. What could’ve just been a wiggling reminder to shower gained context and purpose as my hand gains speed, slipping into the traces of my third grade cursive lessons. And no, you aren’t therefore God, but you do get to be for a little bit. I’m not even 5 forced similes removed from claiming writing was nothing more than ushering newborn thoughts into the world of my page. Breathing life into ink, hoping beyond hope that they have enough free will to go and make something of themselves so I don’t need to. That, upon earning their spot in the printing presses, they can one day sharing a contented sigh with a reader once they’ve said all they came to, and share in the thought that they’re happy they were born.

But they don’t need all of that pressure on them just yet; I am happy to just let them live with me here in this journal for now, befriending whatever hitched a ride from my last trek through the woods until they plop down alongside in the snow. I’ll do my best to teach them what I myself and working to understand. To find a quiet excitement in a pen’s click, seeing it for what it is: the unlatching of a gate into a world of our own creation (and Wormy).