An incomplete list, in no particular order, of some things that happened (so far):
A love affair with the camera. A bout of culture shock at college in upstate New York. Writing. A trip to India. A mercifully short-lived stint as a weather girl in a small town. Boyfriends. A mercifully longer career in television production. Writing. A rural childhood. Some other trips to anywhere that would have me. Girl friends. Some skis. A boy-child. Some backpacks. A husband. Writing.
To be clear, I am so grateful for this life of mine, remarkable perhaps mostly for its arc of good fortune. I know I am a Lucky One. But I have looked back on that list and the other pieces that fill in my history and wondered if they could possibly have anything to do with one another. They don't feel like points on a line. I guess it's a trick of the memory, but they feel like fragments housed in this Corinna-vessel: I know they all fit together somehow, but I have not been totally sure if they have any relationship to my future.
Perhaps it's a function of becoming a parent, that all-consuming endeavor which makes our previous lives seem hazy and dreamlike. Ezra is three now, and I feel like I can breathe again. Or maybe this past year of shooting and writing has just made me hungry to integrate. But suddenly I see clearly that my wish is to take all these strands of me, the fits and starts of learning and knowing, the luck and grace and love, and weave them together into something whole and vital and greater than its parts. Today it feels like that could happen.
Faith is the bird that feels the light, and sings when the dawn is still dark.
- Rabindranath Tagore