I’m writing this while I drink a hot cup of coffee and watch the snow fall outside my dining room window. We in the midwest LOVE a winter storm. Schools closed last night, Kroger was a zoo, salt trucks were out like a swarm of worker ants. So now I get to sit here quietly while my kids watch Steven Universe and attempt to write my first ever Substack.
If I’m honest, I’m feeling nervous. Maybe it’s imposter syndrome, maybe it’s exhaustion (who isn’t exhausted right now?), maybe it’s fear of being misunderstood, or worse…fear that absolutely no one will read it. Reading and writing has always been a source of joy in my life, but writing tends to be more seasonal for me. It ebbs and flows. I’ve written for church publications in the past, I’ve written freelance for a local parenting paper, and I’ve kept sporadic journals of thoughts, poems, notes and quotes - usually only half filled. But I want to write more.
Enter: Substack.
I feel like I want to add a quote by Anne Lamott or Margaret Atwood about the writing process or taking things *bird by bird*, or say something about the Chariot year and how
said we need to practice practice practice, but instead…A blessing as we begin: May these words quietly stir, like the sleeping plants beneath the snow covered earth, to sprout and bloom in the sun.