It turned out otherwise.
I made my first post, cried out of excitement and definitely some apprehension, and allowed myself a breather to think about what I wanted to post next. That breather turned into weeks as the pressure (self inflicted) to follow it up with something even better became too much. Then life happened and writing unfortunately moved down the priority list. Tonight was the first night in weeks that I was surrounded by the writing community that I love and all that pressure became a little more bearable. That’s how community and friendship work, right? Giving yourself permission to be vulnerable, maybe lessen that burden on your shoulders, and be there for others in the hopes that you all stand a little taller afterwards. Maybe not all communities, but this one it is.
All that to be said, here is a piece that I thoroughly enjoyed writing in my workshop class with Salt Tooth Writers. Inspired by the incredible poem Otherwise by Jane Kenyon.
Gratefully, Alternatively
A pair of big brown eyes, knowing and full of love look at me.
A wet nose and head nudging for attention as my alarm clock.
A perk of the ears and tilt of the head with the one word she recognizes far better than “no”.
A tail wag of such force that she can bring a man to his knees.
It might have been otherwise.
A bright, sun filled day on the water paddling against the current.
The melody of laughter lulling an evening to its end.
Cheering from the sidelines as little ones crowd around one single soccer ball.
The sterile smell of tools that turn ideas into a painting on my skin.
It might have been otherwise.
A group text labeled “roomies” between my parents and I.
Twinkling lights illuminate the deck as the conversation ebbs and flows.
Dew covered grass in the early morning walks with my mom.
Learning to live as an adult in my childhood bedroom (pink, orange, yellow and blue walls in full view).
It might have been otherwise.
The sound of a door lock being ripped from its wooden counterpart.
The mind dulling bliss that a full glass of wine promised.
The echo of his anger in the empty spare bedroom, its purpose never chosen.
A pair of big brown eyes, unfeeling and haunted look through me.
It had to be otherwise.
Yours truly,
- Jill
Oooooof, the way you ended it hit me hard. Beautiful writing, Jill!