The words I’m writing may just be letters in lines, but I hope they spell out paths. Paths of the past, paths of the unforeseen future , yet the path I’m intent on exploring is the one I’m taking here; the one I’m taking now, the path I’ll be writing about on my journey across America. Beginning to write is often the hardest part. Right now, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on green tea from a mason jar, my cat Blue sitting beside my laptop, everything feels right to begin, yet resistance.

For the past couple weeks, distraction and procrastination towards writing have been ever present. We’ve been planning a benefit for a friend with Cancer, which was Saturday and went very smoothly. The only point in the night at which I was overwhelmed was just by the sheer outpouring of love; it was incredible. Sunday, we had a surprise 70th birthday party for my Grandmother that I was responsible for getting her to. Although that was initially nerve wracking, the rest of the party was sweet. Her mentioning afterwards that her mouth was extremely sore from smiling made it all worthwhile.  I am so thankful for those kinds of opportunities; such kindness fuels me. But, being Monday morning, it’s time to turn my attention to my own obligations of my upcoming adventure.

I stare out the open window and see growth, of green grass and trees. The trees are full with new leaves; I’m contently listening to the rain heavily beat down on them. Considering, only half seriously, of heading outside to be rained on with hopes that whatever fears or inhibitions of beginning writing will be washed away. I’m determined to avoid my usual buckling when stressful situations converge. So, with that I’ve begun writing as if stretching before a swim; a free fall that I hope to make from here on out, fearlessly. My hopes are that my writing here will be a product of my intentions.