Note: Thanks to artist Kellie Meisl for this amazing image.
It's time that I sit down and write the story that is begging to come out.
The only problem is that I don’t have a clue what it’s about.
It has something to do with the
profound. The sacred sound of eternity and
an awareness of
present moment by present moment.
I think the main character’s name could be
Leah. A name that means “weary.”
Here she is, still in her turquoise and black pajamas, mid-day.
She is sitting cross legged in her study
meditating. But she has trouble staying focused.
So she gets up and opens the door
and steps outside into the wet grass.
The day is gray and rain is certain.
Less clear, I am, but I think Leah is a reporter,
or at least she was to start. Now she is looking
to break her own heart.
Open.
Her chest aches with scissored frustration.
She has written no less than
three million words and still
it’s a bitch to face the
white screen. Over and over and over again.
So instead of trying, she drops to her knees and lays
her nose right into the grass and it smells like
something she cannot possibly describe in words.
At that moment, she is certain OF ONE THING ONLY:
that she cannot write the story
the way she used to.
Once upon a time is no more.
That way she used to lay down line after line of
velvety prose in words that poured endlessly
out of vivid
movie
pictures
rolling
through
her
mind.
ALL GONE.
No wonder Leah is scared shitless.
No wonder she cannot seem to lay
a single thing down on paper except
colorful splotches of paint.
It’s all just a silence.
She comes back through the back door
of her study realizing this: in the quiet stillness
is something like a
or a navy blue wave or a sparkling glimmer of
sun on endlessly shifting water.
Now Leah sees that this is not the time
to panic. She ought to know by now
that one thing follows another
and life keeps throbbing a new.
HOPE.
She returns to a seated position
and lights a candle and starts over
again
in every moment.
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