When I was in middle school (I think) I stumbled across this scrapbook in my grandparents’ attic. As it turned out, it was pages upon yellowed pages of quotes and poems that my great grandmother had typed out — on a typewriter! — and compiled into this book. My pre-teen heart felt such kinship with this woman that I had never met, because even then I was a wordie. Finding that book started me on compiling word collection books of my own, and now when I look back on the notebooks I’ve filled (always giving credit for the words where credit is due/can be found), it’s amazing to see the words that spoke to me at twelve versus the words that speak to me at thirty-one. Either way, it seems like an affinity for words is in my genes. Possibly along with the inability to tell a short story (thanks, Grandpa). But it’s a trait I’m grateful for, as it often helps me in times where I am alone or feel alone, need to process life, or simply just want to read or write. It’s certainly been helpful the last month, so I’ll leave you with this:

There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep and still be counted as warriors. — Adrienne Rich