I don’t know why it is hard to find the words sometimes, to string together the thoughts that suddenly jump in front of a completely different one. Maybe it is inhibition. Perhaps it is the thought that the words only make sense to me. Nevertheless, something compels me to extract them.

It’s like churning butter sometimes—not that I have ever done so personally, but I can imagine it. I want to make the words creamy and soft—spreadable. I want them to be an experience like that first taste of a hunk of freshly baked sourdough torn from the loaf with a smear of butter to enhance its flavor.

My arms tire from the motion, but I keep going because my heart keeps leading my fingers to the keyboard. The thoughts get jumbled, and my inner voice rumbles at being unable to get them out quickly enough. What do they say—all good things in time? I like to believe it. I get impatient, however, when I stumble. Then, something happens, like the drifted smell of a fragrant flower, and I am subdued, immediately transported to a quieter place.

It’s like the faintest hint of mint in ice-cold water on a hot summer day: refreshing, rejuvenating, and cooling as it goes through your body. That’s what it feels like when the words come alive – an extra little jolt to keep my heart in check. It beckons me awake like the early morning slurp from an overzealous golden retriever ready for you to awaken. Sometimes my heart even skips a beat watching the joy from the same dog carefully eating his pup cup on a hot summer’s evening.

The look in his eyes when he successfully licks the cup clean, held firmly between his paws like he’s just won the lottery.

That’s what the innate joy feels like when I can make the words come alive. So often they lie on the island.

“Maybe someday,” I think.

Then, someday turns into today. What lies hidden in the mind forest is meant to be revealed. Many walk it as we meander the curves, our stride in tact. The uphill climb isn’t always onerous; sometimes, it is freeing in the exasperation of making it to the overlook.

Things always look different when perspective shifts. Don’t they?

When I began typing this post, I didn’t have a direction. I wrote what came to mind and secretly prayed it would make sense—the flow of free thoughts. My writing is less restrictive when I let go of the narrative I think I should write. I’m continually taken aback at how thoughts and words connect, and how they don’t. Sometimes, the unbroken words – the ones created from resilience – are the ones that helped glue the fragments back together.

Have you ever been there?

Have you ever been to a place where things sometimes stick together from the glue that seeps through the cracks? Something unwanted that turned out to be necessary. Like a tattered page stuck to slate – both blank, both waiting for something or someone to be born. Only with thoughtful consideration and patience can I disentangle myself from expectations and be.