I mourn a lot over my past self. I remember this intense girl who picked spots on the horizon and tried with clumsy determination to make it into the general area. She accomplished a lot of what she set out to do, but she seldom felt the glow that seemed promised in her ambitions. She also talked more than she listened.
I bore my testimony in sacrament meeting today. Two different people came up to me after the meeting and prefaced the usual, “great job, thanks for sharing” church greeting with, “You know, it’s really scary to go up there, but…”
The husband assured me that I did not in fact sound afraid or nervous, but the comments have stuck in my head wondering when I became such a coward.
I’ve only recently begun to hear the voices in my head again. This is how it starts for me. A fragment of conversation between characters that with the proper nudging develops into dialogue. More nudging may invoke a theme. My hope is that the attention may lead me to a story. How desperately I hope that my fingers and my brain will get their act together long enough for a story. How much I have missed it.
I’ve been listening to the Hamilton soundtrack too much (is that possible?). The phrase “palaces out of paragraphs” sound so lovely even against its context. “You built cathedrals.” How glorious and frightening.