I followed a deer to my home. The first time I happened upon it, I was scared. Viney thorns and ivy crept up the sides of the walls and cotton ball style smoke billowed from the chimney.
The deer stepped on a stick causing it to snap, and I fled.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
It was less than a week when I found myself standing outside of the house, again. Only this time, I had found my way on my own. I followed red berries and soft leaves and the earthy smell of the woods. Damp. Sullen. Quiet.
I peeked into the windows this time and saw freshly baked apple turnovers sitting on the faded and chipped wood counters. There was a fire in the fireplace and its glow turned my hand, which now pressed against the glass, a hue of orange.
I stood there for what felt like hours.
And then I left.
My hands still sticky from the caramelized apples that now lined my belly.
I would return to this home for the rest of my life. Sometimes there would be freshly picked blackberries, a baguette and red wine waiting for me. Other times, a storm would be testing its strength as I stood huddled inside by the fire, mapping out my strategy for placing buckets under leaks like an army general prepping his soldiers.
But no matter the scene, it was my home.
Here, I would forage for words. I would spend hours digging with muddy, wet hands. I would climb trees and search the bark for sounds or the resemblance of punctuation. I turned over leaves to see which synonyms were hiding in plain site and questioned the rain about which words I should choose when describing the way it hit my skin and slid down, goose flesh following behind it.
My fears and doubts would come around every so often, muddying the waters so I had to search extra hard to see the leg of a “b” or the round curve that a “p” makes. They were always there, swimming extra lightly, waiting to be found.
Making time for this foraging would become a lifelong process in my life as a creative. As a woman. As a wife. And as a future mother. As a daughter. As a human. And as a person who yearns to connect with something. A thing that grows roots, wrapping them around my lungs and squeezing them in order to create my voice. My bellow. My hum. My song.
Writing has been my home since I was a child and foraging for words that quickly formed my voice and the way I filter the world has been my livelihood. My necessity for life.
In my writing workshop, Foraging for Words, I invite you to come explore with me. To create the time in your life to collect gems, to meet your curiosity with that childlike charm, and to learn more about what your voice sounds + tastes like. Strawberry breath and a cotton candy tongue.
To learn more, sign up at the bottom of this page for the Wildling newsletters. I will be sending out a free, recorded webinar in a week that defines what foraging for words means for me, how to find confidence in your writing + message, how to mix and mingle with fear and doubt and lots more. I’ll dive deeper into the format of the workshop as well as details we’ll be covering.
Stay tuned for the free, recorded webinar. It’ll land in your inbox on July 12th along with a new opportunity.
After all, your home is waiting.