My family hikes almost every weekend. We often go to the exact same trail, but it always looks a bit different, reminding me what an impact small changes make. It is the one place that all my sons seem to get along, where their interests converge despite their differences in age. Finding the perfect sticks, turning over rocks, and getting muddy. For that hour or so they are friends, brothers bonded by the common goal of exploring.
My writing creates a lot of unforced anxiety. Mostly me imagining all sorts of nonexistent disasters. But what I need to remember is what really matters—the creating part. Watching my sons make up whole worlds and different identities, aided by a good stick and a little imagination, reminds me that I can do the same thing with only slightly different tools.