Tomorrow marks a year since Chicken Scratch hatched. I chose 2-2-22 with intention, because there’s a story there, or several stories, actually. And while not entirely uninteresting, they strike me as tales best brought out at a baby shower, when you’ve eaten a gob-ton of pink and blue M&Ms and realize you need to occupy your face in some other fashion. So, you start in about your oldest brother and Hawaii, the two Tutus and the 22s, and the face of the woman standing across from you lights up. She tells you she hadn’t thought of it in years, but gosh! And, now she’s reminiscing about her mother and grandmother, too. Isn’t it sweet, how that happens?
I like the idea of giving people reasons to smile, and doing so in writing wasn’t out of my wheelhouse when I decided to launch this digital journal. Back in high school, I won a national writing contest and used the $500 prize to open my first checking account. I’ve been writing publicly accessible pieces for 45 years. But hanging out this kind of writer’s shingle, with a commitment to publishing weekly and looking for folks to subscribe? That felt bigger and scarier than anything I’d ever done before.
And, the lay-it-all-out-there truth is that even a year later, it’s still intimidating. Every time I hit the PUBLISH button, I bite the inside of my lip and send up a little prayer, thinking that this time might be the time I really blow it.
There are those who believe success emerges when you see yourself as nothing short of a winner. I hope that’s not true, because I don’t think I’ll ever get to that level of assurance. I take comfort in knowing of some incredibly famous writers who never got there either.
John Steinbeck, in a journal he kept while writing The Grapes of Wrath:
“I’m not a writer. I’ve been fooling myself and other people.”
Maya Angelou, reflecting on her writing:
“Each time I write a book, every time I face that yellow pad, the challenge is so great. I have written eleven books, but each time I think, ‘Uh oh, they’re going to find out now. I’ve run a game on everybody and they’re going to find me out.”
Despite the misgivings, I know this endeavor has been fruitful. Like signing up for a 5K motivates a new runner, the commitment encourages personal discipline which, in turn, boosts confidence. Isn’t that a fun coincidence? It helps me sort some of the chaos in my head into more manageable ideas. And, it is delightful having this connection with you. I am genuinely, humbly, and deeply grateful for the warmth and enthusiasm with which you all have received Chicken Scratch.
Most importantly, though, I believe we are building community through shared stories and common cause. My intent is not to change the world. But, I’m on fire for the idea of bringing people toward conversations they didn’t know they wanted to have, and for the possibilities that reveal themselves among kindred spirits.
About this time a year ago, a couple of days after her 38th birthday, a friend posted the poem below on her Facebook page. Eight months later, she lost her life to suicide. She was a brilliant, beautiful, principled woman who will always be remembered for her dedication to making the world better for those around her.
I think we all have the urge to move in that direction, and I’m certain we are more likely to get there if we walk that way together.
Many thanks!
~Elizabeth
Breathe Yourself New
by Julia Fehrenbacher
Maybe today is the day
to tip it all upside down, to shake out
what is stale and small
and suffocatingly too sure
maybe today, rather than being tossed about
by enough-will-never-be-enough
expectations, rather than grabbing
for another word, another way, another now—
you could step outside and watch sky
make a new day. Maybe today
is the day to let go
of doubt’s smothering hand, to stop hunting
for worthiness, to choose to follow only
what feels like tail-wagging enthusiasm, like firefly’s
warm, sure glow. Like love sprouting roots
from the bottom of bare feet.
Maybe today is the day to remember
that if it doesn’t grow the flame
warmer, truer, brighter, if it doesn’t
feel like a deep diving breath
into all that is here and now
it’s not meant for you.
Then lean close in
to your own glorious glow
and breathe yourself new
Elizabeth. I am grateful you are here and sharing your soul. That poem has me weeping - joy and sorrow. The photo of your lovely Nancy. Your words. All piercing in just the right way. It's so vulnerable; but it is so good. Peace, my friend.
Please, keep doing what you are doing. Sometimes I learn something new, sometimes I laugh out loud, and always, I look forward to the next one.