If you’re enjoying reading along, bring a friend to the circle.
My Papa and I didn’t have the best relationship growing up. We didn’t see each other much and when we did, we didn’t usually see eye-to-eye on things. He didn’t understand me and I didn’t understand him... until now.
For the first time, I saw our similarities and not our differences. We both tell stories. We both express and soothe our suffering through writing. We both think freely and find God in nature. We both care about honoring, preserving, and studying Native American culture. And we both love history, especially family history.
Maybe I should write an album called Willow Creek.
Crying too much to speak, I flipped my recorder off and picked up the book. I turned to the first page, the Preface. After reading the first stanza, I burst into tears. It was all right there in front of me. Clear as day. My next task. My next calling.
I had to tell my family.
P.s. When I asked my Papa why he never wrote poetry or painted again he said,
“I guess I was inspired.”
What is inspiration? Where does it come from? Why does it come?
Would love to hear everyone’s thoughts on this. Feel free to share your thoughts with everyone in the comments or simply to me by replying to this email.
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