Churning Butter

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Jean-François Millet, French, 1814–1875

It’s tough becoming greater than the sum of your beliefs and history. I write to teach myself to be more than my beliefs, to sort out my feelings so they make sense to me. Unlike time or life, memories don’t come in a pre-conceived order.  I’ve been asked “what kind of writer are you” and “why do you write,” so many times and until now I didn’t have an answer. I’m an emotional writer. I write when I wish to heal, to remember, to feel, to cry, to be joyful, to gain courage, to share.  And since humans leave most of their memories to their subconscious to handle; that’s where mine have been in their little jack-in-the-boxes of time slots.  I turn and turn the handle churning my memories like one making butter.  When through my writing I stop editing myself, the memories pop up without my having to spend a lot of time thinking about them.  So forgive me for the lack of order of chronological time.  None of these poems or stories are in the order of my lived life.  They are in the order that memories brought them to me.  They arrived as I found them, ready to share them with you.

 

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