scribblechic

Yesterday I stumbled upon a writer; someone I have read occasionally, but whom my husband follows more closely for her recipes. I’m not certain either of us could tell you her first name, but there was an immediate sense of familiarity. Her meals have enriched our dinner time with recipes that guided my husband through his earliest efforts at meal planning.

In the moment I first recognized this woman I debated any intrusion upon her day, resisting an acknowledgment beyond a polite hello. Shopping with her young son, I hesitated to interrupt her task over a past kindness.

Last April a close friend had requested this woman/writer/cook send my husband a celebratory note for his 40th birthday. She did. It was a happy surprise on a day of many thoughtful personal acknowledgments.

Yesterday it suddenly felt very human and impossibly necessary to say thank you, to offer a face for my gratitude. Except I didn’t know who to thank. I realized seconds before my inevitably clumsy interruption that I didn’t know where to begin in my misguided good intentions without a name.

I debated referencing her by site, but it felt impossible to identify this woman so singularly as she stood tethered to a far greater joy. Hand in hand with her child, I began instead with: Do you write?

My question was intended to help identify my familiarity that I might be permitted my small intrusion. Instead the question followed me home like a stray in want of attention.

Long after I had relayed my thanks for her personal note and expressed my appreciation for the recipes that have become a staple of our family’s meal time, the question Do you write? felt permanently lodged among my thoughts.

No one knows I write. I run little risk of someone interrupting my day with a distracted moment of familiarity. The thing that I most identify as my own is gently buried in anonymity; this provides my children greater privacy while simultaneously guarding my efforts from failure or criticism.

This is not to say that I covet recognition or that I envy another their success. I believe there is enough joy and success in this world for everyone. No, today I am wondering where and when we sound out our truth and dare to walk more confidently among the uncertainty of our dreams. How we answer the difficult personal truths we more easily ask of others.

Tagged: Musings, Self, Writing