Becoming?

I’ve done a bit of writing over on Substack lately, but I’ve been feeling guilty for neglecting this little blog.

This place used to feel like home.
But, six months ago, life pulled me away from my little farm and my three beloved donkeys. They’re still together, thankfully, living comfortably with a dear friend, but far, far away in a location that I can’t visit easily.

In losing them, I also lost the feathery and furry parts of my family…the garden I poured myself into for years…and the rhythm of a life I was slowly, carefully, intentionally building.

And in all that, I lost myself.

Writing here has felt…wrong. Like I no longer have the right to “a donkumentary” because that version of me—the one with the donkeys, the garden, the steady direction—isn’t here anymore.

But the thing is, I don’t quite know who I am now. I don’t know where I’ll land.

I miss my donkeys so much it physically hurts. I often avoid social media because even there, the grief is loud. And when someone who isn’t online asks, “How are your donkeys?” it feels like something inside me collapses.

They’re safe. They’re healthy. But they’re far. And I don’t know if life will lead them back to me.

That’s scary.
That’s sad.
That hurts.

Still, I’ve been trying to find shape in the formlessness. I recently published a book of pieces from the past decade, and I’m proud of it. I’m also working on something new that I’m not quite ready to share. Not to be mysterious, just…things are shifting daily. I don’t yet know what will stick.

I miss my donkeys. I miss my garden. I miss my stories.
I miss me.

But I’m slowly—ever so slowly—stacking little pieces together.
Not to rebuild the old me, but maybe something entirely new. Or maybe I’m for sale on a Goodwill shelf, anxiously awaiting my new home. I don’t know.

The whole world kind of feels like this: a sharply held breath where we’re all waiting to see what could possibly happen next.

Are we waiting, or are we becoming?