I awoke this morning with words on my tongue. And then they got pushed aside.
Through the window as I wandered clumsily back to bed from the bathroom, I caught a glimpse of the glow of snow, a world of white still cloaked in darkness.
The snow is fading now, and so is the silence it brings.
The morning is fading now, and so is the magic it seems.
My heart beats into my right temple.
I have a million stories to tell, a billion words to write, and as soon as I sit down in front of a blank page, everything disappears into dust. I could never write as fast as my mind moves, and choosing one thing means not choosing all the others.
Lately I drive and I listen to Anne Lamott. Shauna Niequist. Women who write what they know. Their truth. Their lives. The perfect imperfections. The smallest molecule of importance and significance becomes the only thing of importance or significance. That is life. This.
The emptiness. The quiet. The boredom. The confusion. The I should. The what if. The messy desk and the dirty dishes. The cat and dog hair that never seems to leave every surface in this home. The search for meaning. The fear.
The stack of work. The lists of tasks, and the task of lists. Say that five times fast.
Maybe there doesn’t have to be a point. Or meaning. Maybe the story doesn’t need a moral. Maybe it is what it is and that’s enough. Perhaps there doesn’t have to be a climax or an ending, or even a beginning really. Isn’t everything just cycling about anyhow?
In my car, on the open roads, with everything passing by but still in front of me and also behind me. This is where I feel something move. Everything comes together. Intersects. The past and the present and the future are all in the same exact moment in time and space. Everything makes sense.
And so, often, I get behind the wheel and I just go. I drive in whatever direction calls me. And with each mile, a little more of me unravels and untangles until I know what I need to do. Until I am aligned with something greater than me.