writing
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my hands,from which i divine with.to caress a glossy deckand trust that they know when to pull a sword or a cup. palms up in my lap during quiet morning musings, to invite stillness and knowing into my days.
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I read my mother’s journals and yearn to have a child who will one day read mine.As scared as I am of what I may produce on those pages,for now, I still write on every line.
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I come from a big, artistic, eccentric family. I grew up around painters and instrumentalists, tarot card readers and poets. Creativity looked very specific to me. Creativity was reserved for those who could swipe paint onto canvases and awe their audiences. It was reserved for those who could pick up an instrument and play a
Lashanda Forsberg 