I’m sitting at my desk amid the surround windows telling me it’s a normal day- whatever that means. The partly open blinds are dutifully keeping the summer glare from blinding my questing eyes. Looking past sheer green curtains pulled gracefully back, I hear the desk fan purring.
A charming ash tree peeks at me from the side window. I named him Oscar, my dear companion during the many hours writing my book.
I look at my other friends nearby, the pretty lamps, the little curvy plant at the window cute in a white cup looking away from me. I see she prefers the sun as her many green arms reach out to hug his rays.
There is the little photo of my brother who died in Vietnam, a 19 year old hero who saved the lives of 21 soldiers. I take in his handsome face staring straight at me. He always offers inspiration and in difficult times, I say: ” If Bill can do it, so can I.”
Sometimes these friends pleasantly distract me from writing with their gentle presence and easy lovingness. Other times, their life on my desk or outside my window contrasts with eyes that stare at vacant electric screens as vacant as any mind unheeding beautiful little lives.
But today they urge me on and instead of the screen, I’m uplifted by their stillness, their beauty, wanting nothing more than just to be what they already are.
I’m a writer and many other things. But, I’m a writer and cherish those moments when I’m here just being that without any thought of being another thing I am.
The moments like this are precious and words just flow when I allow this now to take me on a writer’s journey. And what journey it is – always unexpected, always mysterious. Words barely known appear and dance together in a tango embrace to music never heard before.
From where this mystery? What am I in this? Just another mystery as is all mystery surrounding me, surrounding my friends on this desk or outside this desk?
Oscar’s leaves glisten in the sun like little light-art canvases. Suddenly a fairy wonderland is urging me, telling me to write.
And quickly I’m surrounded by these words whispered from the thousand leaves and their verdant sparkles decorating an azure sky in summer.
Still looking out the window, I whisper to Oscar: “Am I a writer now? Shall I paint with my word brush and make tiny window glimpses of you and lovely moments?
Such little things! How do they so fill my soul?”
Oscar answers by silence becoming even more still.
And I become a writer.
