Steepletop in September

as i prepare for my next day of writing at Steepletop's open house, i carry this in with me (and maybe: for you, too, lovely reader)

tomorrow, i will sit at a historic desk, in a place that's (literally) buzzing with a magick of an unspoken language, under tall pine trees that huddle together like a hug made-up of lifetimes, enough to fit inside a century-or-more, with a soft bed of needles under my bare feet,

and the door will be open, and the people will come, and they'll come without stopping, and each one of them will carry a different story through the doorframe,

and they'll sit in the chair, and they'll get quiet when they're asked what's on their heart, and they'll breathe deeply for a minute, and maybe one will say: 'can you write me a poem about strawberries?" and another might cry and tell me she's buried her mom only two weeks ago (can i write about life and death?),

and there might be children who think typewriters are full of mystical secrets (they are), and there might be elderly lovers who haven't aged, and there might be women holding hands or men seeking revenge or people who feel they've lost their way, or people who feel like they've finally found a home,

and without question,
without question,
without question,

i will see a glimpse of God-as-I-know-God, alive and breathing and human in front of me, and i will do the remembering for them, and the words will come before the conversation is over, and the words will help them to Remember, and

i will wave my hand and motion to the seat directly across from me,
turn a new page into the platen,
and say, with the most genuine intent:

YOU ARE WELCOME HERE.

love you.

all of you.

xox,

jess.