I came back to my granny’s house where I grew up to remind myself why I write. It’s been so long since I’ve picked up a pen in this way and I needed a nostalgic type of inspiration to get me going. This is where I grew up. Where I experienced my first fight, my first kiss and my first, you know….third base experience. (I may tell you about that in a future blog).

As I sit outside in this backyard where I used to play made up games with my cousins, I can hear rumbling from the air conditioning unit coupled with the sound of a distant speeding train off behind the woods. I hear birds chirping and the occasional descending airplane making its way over my hood. This was the soundtrack to my adolescence. I used to write to this. I used to write to heartaches and love, sad endings and exciting beginnings. I used to write to my granny’s roast beef and homemade cornbread. And right now this soundtrack sounds the same as it did way back then…reminiscent of fun times in a backyard that used to feel bigger than life. Carrying me right back to when we would recreate “Double Dare” obstacle courses on a broken swing set.

I’m sitting here at this stone picnic table on my Mac, occasionally glancing over at the names my cousins and I carved into the once wet cement more than a decade ago.

“MJ, Mika, Chris, Jay, Sean, Corinna.”

Green grass, tall trees and hundreds of flowers used to fill this backyard leading up to the fence that kept the woods from creeping up to the house. When I was younger I’d imagine all the crazy creatures that must’ve lived just beyond the part of the woods that I could see. I would always hear sounds right beyond the trees and on occasions I would catch a rabbit dash across the yard only to disappear through the small holes in the fence. I remember when my mother would call me inside to take a bath and eat before bed. My mother…I remember my mother. She is the reason I write.

Today sitting next to my eleven year old who was beyond excited about coming out here to write with his mother, I reminisce and I’m reminded why I write. Interrupting my journey  down memory lane he swats at a bug, as he looks at me, “Mommy, I can’t think of anything else to write.”

On his paper: The green grass has so many yellow flowers and plants. They are beautiful.

“Well, are you ready to go in?” I ask. “No” he says. So I go back to typing as the wind picks up and the overcast in the sky prepares the yard for rain. I smell grass, I feel bugs bite and I hear the neighbor across the ditch fussing and yelling at his dogs. Cursing and screaming is not quite what I had in mind when I imagined how serene my first blog post would be. But I suppose that’s the beauty of writing, how reality will interrupt your story to give it some color. My son has started to venture into his nose for entertainment, so I supposed that’s my cue to wrap it up.

This blog is my write to freedom.

My write to journey.

My write to healing.

My write to be random.

No perfection here so feel free to follow along if you’re just as imperfect and human as I am….