Friday, May 30, 2014

words are living everywhere, even when i'm not at home

It's coming down to the end now, and I feel empty of ideas. I've been trusting each day to bring one of its own, and only a few times have I relied on old ideas to push me through to the next day, the next time words magically morph together into a picture, an idea, a story. Writing this way (is there another way?) is more difficult, I'm learning, when I'm busy. When I'm not at home much. Last night, I finally opened my door at 9:17 to find my apartment just as I'd left it that morning at 7:30 - on the kitchen counter, an empty bowl with streaks of missed yogurt crusting on the inside and the spoon resting at its side; in the dining room, the sunflowers that told me a week ago that their slow death had started, now hanging their heavy, bald heads while their crinkled yellow petals covered the table around them in memoriam; in the living room, clean unfolded laundry filled a basket, intended for folding, for more order than I was able to invoke. It all hinted at a life that has not cleaned up after itself. At a life that is not at home.

The bowl was still on the counter, the sunflowers bowing their heads, the laundry wrinkled in the basket when I left at 5am this morning for my running group. Two hours later I was at my desk at work, answering emails and greeting coworkers and planning a sleepover with a friend tonight nearly an hour away.

So I write now, in the in between, without much to say, trusting that even that is something to say. Thankfully, words can be found in all sorts of places. They are living everywhere, waiting for me to pick them up and put them together and make them lived in. Even when I am not at home.

1 comment:

  1. I really like the way you describe the scene you came home to.

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