Radio Silence

It has been a while.

Quite some time, in fact.

But without apology, allow me to explain.

A man named Gary Giffin chose to pick up the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette one October afternoon in the fall of 2021.

And he took the time to read an article.

Of a local woman who had thru hiked the entirety of the Appalachian Trail.

That woman was me.

Last summer, Gary reached out to me, introducing himself and his backing of my message. His awe of my trek, and his calling to pay it forward in his retirement. And he made mention of a “Read Local, Eat Local” event at the Peter’s Township Public Library. All because he saw my quest, my muse, through the words that Abby Mackey so elegantly used as she authored my story.

And so I went.

Because my newfound wingman suggested that I should.

And because my intuition told me to do the same.

And at that suburban library on that hot July afternoon, in between the chorizo slinging food trucks and aspiring Western Pennsylvania authors, I learned of Littsburgh.

Which is where I read up on Atithi Studios.

And their upcoming events.

The one titled, “Art as Memoir: A Creative Writing Workshop”, grabbed my attention.

It pulled at my curiosity, my gut.

And so I went.

To Sharpsburg on April 2nd, 2023.

Amanda greeted me at the door.

She had a warm smile, unruly charcoal-colored locks, and she wore an onyx ring on her index finger that immediately grabbed my attention.

That introduced me to her eccentric. To her depth. To her human.

She graciously guided me to the room where the seminar was about to begin, and I was grateful for her escort, being there alone. In a strange space. Exploring a new chapter.

However, Amanda wasn’t a docent, she was the presenter. The emcee. The curator of the exhibit and the host of the workshop that Giffin had unknowingly “sent” me to.

The Amanda Filippelli.

She asked if I was a writer.

And I told her that I aspired to be. That I had a story to tell. And that very story was upstairs, but the margins…the literary agency…the word count…the cover art…the publishing houses…they all had me paralyzed.

Amanda replied, “What would you write if you weren’t afraid?”

And I told her.

And, at once, she offered the last remaining spot in her Author Architect Program to me.

That happened to be starting the very next day.

I hadn’t been lost, but I was undirected.

Serendipity.

“One day can bend your life.”

I am writing a book.

And I am deep into Chapter 11.

Which is why you haven’t heard from me.

Acts. Arcs. Plots. Subplots. Scenework. Character building.

Tears.

The art of writing a memoir.

Just as when I was a kid, juggling between fast pitch and slow pitch softball tactics within the same season, timing is everything.

Prose is everything.

Will Tedder, my cousin’s husband, and I had a conversation last year. He said, “You’ve found your spirit animal, your warrior self, now how do you maintain that?”

I will write my story.

The story of my life.

No holds barred.

Just as the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon’s West Rim Trail did.

Yielding 8 burrowed tick bites. Complete with a burlesqued full body check under the moonlight of Katie’s headlamp. And her tweezers. Dug deep into the back of my biceps. A Doxycycline prescription. Only after a ride into Wellsboro. A melted Talenti. A water logged stove. A carabiner that took a dive into the Susquehanna. A leaky tent. Commando hiking. As in, zero pairs of underwear standing. A hungry mouse. A starving mouse. Who dined on my t-shirt after dark. A snapped paracord. And 3 days of torrential rain. Skin pruning, soul crushing, rain.

Its lessons.

Its character building.

Its 31 miles that paled in ways to my 2,193 on the Appalachian Trail proved that it is the girth of the time spent, not its length, that speaks to its bounty.

To its value.

Just like Graydog and I.

On that icy April morning in the foothills of North Carolina, back in 2021.

He stared at me in awe as I approached him, as if I had just risen from the dead. His white hair curled at its ends and was tucked behind each ear as it escaped his ball cap and graced his shoulders. His turquoise eyes lived behind his clear rimmed glasses. They were the window to his soul. He removed his gloves and withdrew a piece of notebook paper just as quickly as I had arrived.

And he asked for my permission to recite a poem.

A poem that he had written after our brief interaction, our fast but robust time together, at Rock Gap Shelter days before.

Our girth.

“May I?”, and he began to read.

“In An Instant

The MOMENT

For stangers

The soul

The connection

For life

The MEMORY

For strangers