The Wielder of Words Carries the Gentlest of Hearts.

To share one’s life with the world, to open up about the hardships, the losses, the failures, the hopes, the dreams, and the loves of one’s life is to be vulnerable. I met her at the University of Washington, Bothell campus–I was a staffer thinking of working in the writing center on the side, and she was the writing center director. I was quite intimidated by her. She had a wealth of knowledge that I knew I lacked. She edited, crafted, spellchecked, supported, mentored, and was without question a lover of writing. I remember sitting there as she looked over my writing sample and I felt as if I was waiting for approval from an elementary teacher. All my little hopes and fears awaiting what she thought of my drawing of a bunny. Of course it was not a drawing of a bunny, but instead a piece about books, (imagine that.)

Bureaucracy, and rules over hours kept me from working with her. I regret that, regret what I might have learned from her, wonder if we would have been friends, or just staff and superior. When I think of those days she is one of the touchstones of my time there. I cannot look back at those memories without that one moment of sitting with her in her office popping up.

Life moved on and so did we and it was years later when I a new mother, and she traveling around with a faithful hound as her sidekick. During those years she had loved and lost, built and demolished. She shared such beautiful moments with us. I, would read those posts and feel such emotion as her life unfolded. Perhaps my loneliness from being in a new town and having new baby were lenses that tinted her posts for me, but I felt each challenge she faced deep in my heart.

On her wanderings she stopped for a visit. Her puppers was a dear, and we spent an afternoon chatting in the backyard, and then she drove away and our lives became posts viewed on a screen again.

Ups and downs, horrible losses–a farewell to her pup that left its impression on my heart deeper than some of the classic tragedies of literature. She shared her success and her falls. She wrote of her life in such a way that I could see her heart break and track the progress of it healing. She shared her struggles, and from them I learned and connected and understood me more, even when I cried for her.

So, after all these years, I think back to that woman in the writing center who seemed to belong behind a desk wielding a red pen and I understand that those smart glasses and perfectly pressed work shirts were the tiniest part of who she is, the largest part of her is her gentle heart, her amazing mind, and her strength in sharing her vulnerability. She offers up her pain and grief, she shares what others might hesitate, and in doing so we gain the courage to share too.