Thou Art the King of Glory

How should I start this?

My memory leads me to a small patch of grass in front of my best friend’s house on a hill in the sunshine, writing poetry after school in 4th grade.

My memory leads me again to a rock in the mountains of Southern California where I sat in witness to a stream and forest and sky and spirit in waiting. On a single sheet of notepaper I sketched out what I could see in words I could only begin to use, but I knew I needed to, and wanted to.

That patch of grass and moment of sunlight and cold granite and gracious surrounding are the settings of my beginning and the spaces of first encounter with writing: childish, real, and lovely.

I couldn’t tell you if I remember what I wrote or if I could access some form of genius only within a child’s reach, but I had an experience of honest observance and craft that felt more like a door than a moment, humility rather than pride. I could only compare it to a genuine experience of coming into my own and creating from participation with my most inward peculiarity and purpose, partial but authentic, innocent but genuine.

Those experiences were foundational not necessarily for the cultivation of my writing style or skill but more-so for instilling a love and passion for writing that will never truly fade, though in dormancy at certain times in my life. They remain a soft point of entrance into my heart and serve as a continual reminder of the loyalty and steadfast dearness I have for writing.