my father is a writer. as a kid, i would wake to the sound of a typewriter nearly every morning of my life. later, it was the sight of the ever present notebook in hand. he was always writing. working on something.
as it turns out, sometimes writers are not so good at recognizing or validating fellow writers. even if one of those fellow writers happens to be their own daughter.
this morning my father turned to me and said
'they say you're a pretty good writer. so it's gonna be up to you now, kid.'
and right then i thought about leonard cohen. you know, about the cracks. and the light. i thought about perfect offerings. and how it really is never too late. for anything. especially the good stuff.
i thought about grace and expansion and how sometimes the truly great things come when you least expect them. mostly when you least expect them. but that you always should. expect them. because they're always there. somewhere. i thought about a million things. and then i said
'well. i'll do my best.'
then i let out the breath i had no idea i had been holding for all these years. maybe even for 39 years and 11 months.