I've been reading OS for a long time now. Eventually I signed up, because I wanted to be able to rate and comment on the stories that most moved me (and there are many) but it felt cowardly to jump in that way.

I've always been a reader, and a writer, and a bit of a wiseass, and this community felt like a place where all those "qualities" were welcome, but I've resisted sneaking in by the back porch, afraid the rusty squeak of the screen door would give me away before I was ready to face the assembly. I determined that I'd write something as an introduction. It didn't have to be much, just a little Yopp, not too embarrassing if I failed to be noticed. But, then, so many times, I didn't sit down to write. So often, I didn't think of anything to say.

Where did my words go?

A few years back I had a miscarriage. I hadn't even known I was pregnant, only that something was wrong. Nonetheless it was a devastating event. I needed something to stop the thinking, the endless words that gerbiled through my mind. Things others said, things I couldn't say...they snared and thrashed and I sat silently. I need something to do. In desperation I picked up some needles and yarn and a pamphlet on knitting, and taught myself over the weeks that followed to make stitches one after another. My tension improved; I learned what a difference nice yarn and tools made. It was a challenge that became a habit - a stopgap that turned into a lifeline. Knitting took over my spare time and half my office. I read fewer books, spent less time online, and wrote far less. Did my words get bound up in the stitches, caught in the endless loops of the fabric that soothed me as it emerged from my fingers?

Years have passed where I haven't written a thing that wasn't either job related or a brief status update. Did the steady attrition of thought and attention that stem from a social media career steal my words?

It's not like I ever went a day without missing them. I had notions of writing slowly and thoughtfully passing through my mind as often as I dreamed of sock patterns. I read others' words with as much jealousy as admiration. How did they get them OUT? Mine were stuck somewhere. I could feel them, my unborn children, my potential lovers, my missed opportunities, my paths not taken. My unspoken dreams.

I still spend most evenings with fiber in my hands, knitting or spinning. I still feel tremendous soothing and satisfaction from the simple act of creating a beautiful object. But as my mind and body have gone through the post-miscarriage healing transformation, the words have rebelled and turned on me. They tease me with their unrealized power. My fingers itch to put down the soft beautiful fibers and take to the clacking keyboard.

Last weekend, while on the table getting an acupuncture treatment, I had a minor vision. It was of a place I've been before - perhaps some of you have been there too. It was the underground river. The place of darkness where the only reflection comes from inside you. The message was clear. My time underground is coming to an end. I can only reflect inwards so much longer. In darkness and from silence, the words must be born. The process has begun.