I used to have a lot to say about myself. When I was younger and less sure about who I was or who I wanted to be. When all I had was a pen and a pocketful of questions, I had so very many words. Pages and pages full.
I still have the pen. And the questions, though most of those are new. Questions tend to multiply, you know. Like rabbits. Or mold spores.
And the words, I still have the words. Although they come less often, and in smaller (but more self-assured) groups. These days my pockets, my heart, my life are brimming over. They hold so much more than I ever imagined they could. So much more than me, myself, and I.
Poetry has always filled the hollows and quieted the pain, so I suppose it makes sense that the fuller my heart, the fewer my words.
Someday life will return to a more leisurely pace (fingers crossed). Perhaps then my pen will speed up again. But for now, I’m content with the few words I tuck into stolen moments. I have just enough words to keep me sane while the clock ticks and the time flies and the girl grows.
And I know there will always be a pen in my pocket. A pen and a question.