When I was a girl we used to send messages in bottles out into Long Island Sound. Silly letters rolled up tightly and tied with twine. We slid them into whatever soda bottle we could scavenge from our parents and topped them with corks. And just like that, we tossed our words out into the water. Writing here feels so similar to me. Every day I write is another day I feel like that girl standing on the beach, my toes being kissed by the surf, watching my bottle float away. I write these notes, essays, poems, stories and send them out into the world. I let the current and mood pull them across the miles. I write with no specific reader in mind, I am writing just to write. I let my words set sail and take on a life of their own, to find a home in someone else’s heart.
I am amazed and humbled by the talent I see here in our own little ocean. Or should I say, not so little? The writers I follow are from all over the world! I am amazed, I am inspired, and I find it all so magical. It as if dozens of bottles, all shapes and colors, wash up on my shore every day. Those I follow via email hold a special place in my heart, I wait in anticipation every day to see those two words-‘New Post’ in my email. In an inbox filled with dozens of ads and offers, these are like hidden treasure and never fail to make me smile.
Our tiny scrolls in our scratched up bottles are all reaching other shores. Our words written in secret, in public, part of a dream or part of a job, are being unfurled and savored by someone else. Someone we’ve never met and quite likely never will, holds a bit of our heart in their hands every time we hit publish and cast our bottle out to sea. Each bottle, or post, we open is a glimpse into someone else’s soul. We can see part of what makes them tick, bits of what they hold dear. I think of that little girl on the rocky coast each time I write, and how lovely it is that I don’t spend weeks wondering where my bottle will end up anymore. I don’t have to ride to the beach everyday and walk the coast to see if my bottle to be washed back in, smashed against the rocks. I don’t have to check the mail to see if there is a letter from some far away place I have only dreamed of.
I only have to come here.