Just Words:

When I was five years old my aunt asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I responded very resolutely, a cheerleader. That was the pipe dream of a toddler. When I was seven years old, another aunt gave me my first journal. It was deep purple with gold stitching and from that moment on I thought I wanted to be a writer. Slowly over time my courage to be a writer failed me but my love of writing did not. I continued to fill journal after journal, scrap of paper after scrap of paper with words. I buried them, I kept them hidden. But recently, for no reason that I can explain, I feel the strongest desire to let people read what I have to say. I feel a desire to acknowledge that little part of me that still wants to write, I want to wave at that little part of me and say "yes, I know you." 

One of my favorite things to do is to sit at The Biltmore with a coffee and a book and watch people. I like to jot down things that I notice about people. Like the three women walking through the grass, linked arm-in-arm. It reminded me of Italy, that's the way women walk through the streets there. That's the way to complete a proper passeggiata. Or the man with his little daughter. I caught myself staring at him, kneeling in the grass, getting down on her level. There is something attractive about watching a man become vulnerable. He stayed that way, crouched down, to straighten her skirt or tickle her belly. And I thought to myself that it's the same with adults, sometimes we need to get down on each other's level. Sometimes we need to look at things from a different perspective, maybe a little closer to the ground.