I’m in Colorado, which is my home state and, thus, my happy state.

Ordinarily when I’m here, I spend most of my time outside.

This time, my adventures have been more of the indoor variety.
For one thing, it’s been seriously deeply crazily cold. (I know it’s winter, but still!)
Also, I’ve gone from school visit to school visit to conference to book store to school visit. Etc.

So, no summits this trip, or backcountry skiing, or campfires.
Although I did wield a mean snow shovel for about an hour yesterday morning.
Instead, I’ve saved my awe and giddiness for 2nd graders and teachers and librarians and best old friends.

Usually, I like to share little quotes and anecdotes from my school visits, because they tend to be very funny and very dear. (Like last Thursday, for example, when a little boy suggested to me that “a cat is a pocket for a hairball.” I mean, honestly. Does it GET any better than that???)

But this trip has been too long and chock-full to collect quotes every day.
I’ve just let it roll on by.
Until this morning.
When a little guy raised his hand to ask, “Does it hurt to write books?”

I caught my breath.
And while I did he said, “I mean, like do your hands hurt?”

Oh.
That’s what he meant.
My hands!

So I showed him a little stretch I do to wake up my fingers and my arms and shoulders when I’m at my desk.
He and all his buddies did the stretch with me.
It was a nice moment.

But meanwhile, I was thinking, “Does it hurt to write books?”

He didn’t even know to ask about the other kind of sore, the invisible kind.

When what we’re working on doesn’t work.

When what we write isn’t right.

When what we love isn’t beloved.

When we’re pretty sure we’re all washed up with no place to go.

When we’re deathly afraid.

“It does,” I wanted to say. “It hurts.”
But I didn’t want to scare him away.
Because there are all those times when it doesn’t hurt, when it thrills and tickles and shines.
I’d hate to scare him away from that.