Personal History

Retracing my footsteps in the snow as I make my way back along the forgotten trail reminds me of my morning ink-tracks——the path by pen I re-walk daily now as I write my second memoir.

I look down occasionally, stepping precisely in the same indented boot-spots, foot-print to foot-print, discovering the same mucky areas and feeling the long stride as I move with care, wanting to follow exactly. In this way, I walk with my past, letting her guide and show me the path as certain bends surprise me and the hike itself becomes like a ride.

Locked into the tracks, I am liberated from my sorting out and planning mind as the steps make sense on their own. My writing flow is similar. As long as I’m present, and I meet the page each morning fearlessly, the story tells itself. I don’t have a well-kept journal to refer to this time, and I’m finding, I don’t need one. The healing flow is already there——all I have to do is simply tap in.

And like this first-snow-of-the-year hike, I am weaving and making my own footprints too. I walk as a friend sometimes, a good listener, and a quiet observer alongside. I see where my past-self crossed a certain river, choosing an area that seemed shortest from that direction, as I explore the other side, uncovering and discovering the whole route. Where she paved, I return, allowing my new healing and evolved intuition to highlight a different stream of consciousness——smaller moments that neither thought prior to discovery were that important.

I pause on the trail to catch the silence. The snow fall is gentle but steady. The fluffy flakes kiss my nose and wet my cheeks as I look up and breathe the illuminated sky of grey. I am at peace out here, free with my thoughts and free in my open-moment awareness. I am both living and being in the essence of what makes me happy.

A legacy to leave behind may sound extreme, but not when your life is as precious as the lessons, wisdom, and inspiration you need to share. Some people retrace blood-lines, ancestry, religion, and history for genuine soul growth, but I’ve always preferred the mystery of my pen.

Ink holds a lot of power, and I learned a long time ago that there is no beauty in the written word without personal reflection and healing. The flow cannot be vindictive, unaware, or artificially controlled. The language will reveal these weaknesses, and as a self-made person, I learned all these lessons on my own, through project after project, journal after journal, and draft after draft growing up.

The art form and the life itself are deeply connected. Still standing in the fall of snow, I imagine the sky ablaze and the flakes like ash. Would I still be at peace? In a weird way, I think I would because I know the inner strength of who I am and who I always will be. My own past is my greatest history, and by honoring the path and retracing my tracks, I am honoring not just myself, but the larger, more timelessly woven history of others.

Most personal truths are universal. The joy comes in discovering this and realizing just how connected you truly are.