Every day I am aware that
many months and many miles have passed
without many words being shared.
14,388 miles logged to date with almost as many photos,
and not nearly as many words.
It is not for lack of words, not for lack of experiences,
But quite honestly,
writing is hard.
Photos are easy, rolling out,
An introvert in a family of six,
A full-time traveler in a mini home on wheels,
Where quiet is hard to come by.
I sit and stare, willing words to appear,
To verbally manifest these moments,
And think of my grandfather the writer
locked in his study with a typewriter
tap-tap-tapping out words.
It used to be that words came in torrents like rain in the South.
Then babies came -
And a camera was easier to wield than a pen.
Quick captures in the beauteous bedlam.
My camera skills sharpened and took the edge off my pen.
I learned to file away the moments in an image or two
and hope to verbalize them later.
One piece of this journey's vision was to make space again for things like writing,
to begin filling journals along with my camera roll,
and slowly, slowly that is happening.
And when the words come out and spill in ink across the page,
they fill in the lines between the photos
and moments feel complete.