Considering The Possibilities
I have tackled a story with a connotation such as this one before. Seldom do the words spring from my fingertips with the speed of lightning shooting across the darkened sky. I admit to having mental images of me tapping out such a story on the front porch. Stopping, from time to time, to take a sip of Earl Grey tea. Enjoying the sounds of the birds chirping just out of sight. Completing a story such as this one in a matter of an hour or so. Certainly sounds poetic, but that is never going to happen.
Reality for me is generally quite different. Most of the time, the process takes several days. Sometimes even longer. Typically, a Word document remains open on my laptop with snippets splatted across the page in no particular order. Some are but a few words, while others are a sentence or two. Over time, some are expanded upon while others are deleted. Snippets are moved about as the story slowly takes on a life of its own.
As I sit here, staring at my laptop, I too can fondly recall similar experiences that Judy and I have shared. Exploring the Inner Harbor and Fells Point in Baltimore. Cracking open blue crabs with a wooden mallet while our lips were marinated in Old Bay seasoning. Taking a cruise down the mighty Mississippi on the American Queen. Walking down Bourbon Street, as the best blues music in the world spills out onto the sidewalk. Riding the Coastal Starlight down the western coast from Seattle to Los Angeles and back. Stopping off in San Francisco for a late-night ride on a cable car and a stroll through Fisherman’s Wharf.
Upon Further Contemplation
As I paused from my two-finger hunt-and-peck typing routine, I gazed out upon a calm and tranquil world. I reflected upon a story that someone else in the group read in commemoration of Memorial Day. It was a heartfelt story of lives forever changed by the horrors of war. His prose was painful to hear. I can only speculate how painful it was to compose and to read out loud to the group. It was the kind of story that reminds us all how fortunate we really are. How little room we have for complaining.
His prose reminded me of the lives lost, each and every day. I thought about the lives forever changed by a myriad of tragedies. Some were the victims of war, while others were targeted for being different. Others still were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. There were far too many lives lost so senselessly. Far too many more were forever altered in ways we cannot begin to fathom.
When dealing with a difficult topic such as this one, the pauses and the glances out the window occur with greater frequency. And sometimes my search for wisdom, my quest for inspiration comes from the most unexpected places. On one particular pause, I watched as a dog, across the street, hiked a back leg. Whereupon he left his mark on a rock in the yard across the street.
He was going about his day, just as I suspect he goes about his day, every day. I doubt that he ever contemplates whether this day’s routine will be different from any other day’s routine. Likewise, I doubt that he ever considers passing by every rock he encounters and stopping only to sniff the flowers instead.
Honey, I Am Home
In that moment, I knew that I couldn’t change my daily routine either. It is what it is, and I am who I am. Before I go, I won’t start planning trips to places I have been before. Sequels can seldom compete with the original. Before I go, I won’t commit a bucket list to paper. Though I must admit, a cruise along the Alaskan coast has been on my mind lately. And maybe a hike along the Continental Divide
I probably will not hug Judy any tighter or tell her I love her any more than I already do. As I drive to the local grocery, I will not stop to consider the bullies or the evil that lurks about. Before I go, I will not suddenly start living like I am dying. Nor will I live differently lest tomorrow never comes. Those words sell records in Nashville, but I guess they have never been my mantra. That said, hopefully, people recall my good deeds far more than they reflect upon my bad ones.
As I close out this story, I cannot help but contemplate this writing assignment. Likewise, the past few similarly themed assignments. Home, family, first times, and mentors, to name but a few. I find myself pondering the elephant in the room. Is our Fearless Leader an accomplished writer who likes to dabble in psychology? Or perhaps, she is a psychologist who likes to dabble in writing. Hmm, I wonder. Perhaps, given our proximity to Roswell, there is another explanation worthy of consideration.
