About Me — Judy Walker

A Writing Astronaut.

I grew up dreaming of becoming an astronaut. My fingers sticky with paper glue, I’d clip newspaper articles about space travel, black and white photographs of the moon and the earth, anything and everything our Soviet comrades shared with us, the Czechs, about their National hero, Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space.

I carried around that elastic-wrapped scrapbook in my backpack for years. I wanted to be Yuri Gagarin and circle the Earth. I wanted to explore the unexplored, to see the unseen, and experience the never before experienced.

At thirteen, my wish came true. I landed on another planet.

At least that’s what Canada felt like to me when my family and I immigrated on a frigid January morning in 1980.

I did not arrive of my own free will. I did not want to live in this vastness that tasted of salt from coast to coast; where my father came home from work covered in coal dust after a twelve-hour shift at the mine; where my mother vacuumed electrical outlets in a motel because her boss insisted she must.

I wanted to return to the land of cobblestone streets, to the cadence of the language I knew; back to the castle ruins and mushroom picking expeditions in the woods. I dreamt of walking across stone bridges and of sitting in the meadow, reading childhood fairytales. I craved my grandmother’s carrot soup and the warmth of my grandfather’s hand as we walked to the Saturday morning market.

I wanted to graft my roots that had been severed the day my parents told me we were never going back to our homeland.

Fast-forward 42 years.

Facts about this astronaut

I use a fountain pen with purple ink when I journal. I prefer daisies over roses and cotton over silk. I like to laugh so hard my fillings show and cry without restraint. I’ll tell you the truth, even when it’s hard. I make love and have sex, and sometimes…yeah…sometimes I just like to f*ck the one who holds my heart.

I hug my children close and have long, heartfelt conversations with my cat. I giggle at my own jokes and sing off tune in the shower. I’ve had two marriages and a few deep loves that made my heart strong and soft–vulnerable as a result.

I make space for my feelings and call each one by name. I pay homage to their power to heal the wounds my flesh still carries. I’ve made courage my spiritual practice. I wake each morning to usher gratitude into my day. I’m like the velveteen rabbit — loving all the parts of me, the pretty and the rough.

The space I explore

I live in the gritty and the naughty; the squirmy and the painful; in the bits of life that make me weep with joy and those that double me over. I write stories that live in my hands, my feet, my face and my gut.

I write about my struggles and wins in relationship.

I write about healing from codependency.

I write about loving our emotions.

I was a contributing writer for Elephant Journal for over two years. The stories that connected most with the readers were the ones where my ego took a back seat and exposed me. Ter-ri-fy-ing.

The meaning behind it all

Ultimately, I write because it is what I do best. I write to express my innermost feelings. I write to discover myself and the truth that lives inside. Sometimes, when I’m lucky, I grow as a human being from the words that come through me and I create something where before, there was nothing and maybe, just maybe, ignite a spark of connection with you.

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