I’ve had my first hot cup of Earl Grey tea and a piece of toast slathered in Justin’s Maple Almond Butter. Wellbeing purrs through my veins. I’m at last accustomed to our granite table now, with its odd height and brown shiny reflections. The kitchen track lights glow back up at me like spaceships.

Outside, a few straggler leaves cling to the bones of the plum bushes. Limbs of tall trees reach bare into the sky. With global warming, it’s taken these trees a long time to drop their leaves. It’s weirdly warm still—60 on Thanksgiving.

I’ve been on a unique healing journey. Once upon a time, I considered it my job to share it. Yet each of us goes on our own “Hero’s Journey,” and each of us does come back with some unique gift for the tribe. It’s not that I’m convinced of the greatness of my offering. I can’t think why anyone would need or want it, but that’s beside the point.

I Have to Write. And since I Have to Write, I might as well share it.

In my dream last night, I was part of the school newspaper. We’d finished all the stories, but there appeared to be a large amount of copy space open. Maybe the editor had another plan for all that space. I wasn’t sure, so I just started writing into that big blank space because it was easy for me to fill. I thought: They don’t have to use it, but this way, there’s no emergency if they need copy.

I’d worked on my story for a while in the dream, it dawned on me that it was pretty good. I might have to convince the editor to make room for it and publish it. I guess that’s what’s dawning for me now: I can fill countless empty pages, but at some point, I’m going to need to decide that what I offer is valuable and advocate for it in the world so it finds a place out there too.

Though I’ve written since age 7, I’m a clueless beginner. I feel unsure of the words to use. There is no guarantee anyone will listen. In a world where everyone I know has been pitching for decades, I’m still filling the empty spaces thinking it will go to use as needed…IF needed.

In the dream, too, I was the one who had to realize that what I had created was good. And I was the one who was going to need to to speak up if it was going to be read.

I can have confidence writing in the journalistic tradition so much more easily than for this personal writing. I was published in the newspaper while still in high school, and I’ve worked as a reporter for almost a decade. How can I believe that what I do here, this muddling about filling blank pages, is worth sharing. After all, one of my favorite things about the creative process is not knowing or caring whether the writing that comes is “good,” but rather trusting the muse to turn me inside out, to hear my aching breaking heart and then offer it up. Because it’s all I have, for better or for worse, to offer this aching breaking world.

Do you have a thing that for you is the “Can’t help it? ” What about “Want to share it?”

Christopher heard a poet give an open mic called “I stand naked before you” about a year ago. The poet spoke, looking right at the audience, and opened her heart to them. Inspired,  Christopher is writing powerful poetry now. His poems are pure and vulnerable. He’s cut out the bullshit, the hiding, anything extra.

All I can do is look at you and say, “I wish I wasn’t naked. Isn’t there an easier way?” But my heart smiles to be seen, and to see your faces. My heart is just so happy in the limelight. Love pours from me and to me and the circuit feels at last complete. I notice I’m not wearing clothes, and I cover my face with my hands and I weep. Because of course we are all so ashamed and it hurts so badly. But then I uncover my eyes and I smile, in love with you anyway. Our shared crucifixion. Our tender mercy. The love you and I feel for one another is worth it. It’s everything. Nothing else can come close. Thank you for hearing me, even if just for a minute. This one nanosecond of connection is the only thing worth fighting for.

by Jessica Judith Beckwith

Stunned, I look around. Same body. Clock ticks. Seconds pour through. Tea tastes good cold. Am I alone, or have you come with me? All the above. I shrug and know I will write again tomorrow morning and the next and this is my love poem to you, my beloved. You are the sea of faces and you stand naked before me, too. It’s a gift beyond comprehension. Each one of us crucified, tender, recognized, and at long last, loved.

What do you fill your empty spaces with? What calls on you with the magnitude of the shark’s tooth? Tell me. I want to know. Thank you for your patience and your skill in weathering these writings. Thank you for listening, watching, paying attention. Thank you for this one moment where we merge, laugh. I am touched by you and will never be the same.