This is where I belong: in a new place, surrounded by unfamiliar sights, sounds, smells… The visceral inspiration is like a drug, a hit of something I cannot experience any other way. Give this to me, any day of the week, any month of the year. I need this — this pause of life that beckons for something more. Like the stillness of a song, the emptiness before the beat drops. It’s something; intangible, but right there and about to be grasped.
I can feel the potential energy this place has: the opportunity to create something absolutely amazing is right here. Out there in the mountains, here in this office… I know something incredible is about to happen here. And I am ready to pen it. I don’t have to be perfect, just aware enough to capture the inspiration in a bottle and get it inscribed onto the page for all of you. So, in that spirit of things, here is a long-overdue story.
A man sighed, shaking snow off his boots and wondering when the biting cold would pass. But even as he sat down, he had to admit the frost along the windowsill was quite beautiful. Besides, this wasn’t the time to complain: there was a letter that needed to be written. Eyes alight with emotion, inspiration, and even a hint of fear, the writer sat down to pen words that had been wrapped around his heart for a couple years. Words that even now — as he sat down to commit them to the page — remained jumbled and tangled with emotion inside him. With a deep breath, he pulled out the soft metal pen and let the ink flood down into the rough paper; he remained hopeful that the mere motion of his hand could translate the confusing language of his heart. Somewhere in that mess, was a message he needed to address. If simply to have it out in the world, transplanted from the mind to the medium so the memories no longer weighed on him.
The letter was for her. The bright smile in the dark days. The glimmer of happiness that came with knowing someone special. The Phoenix that had paused to mend his broken heart and helped put back some of the pieces. The man had little knowledge if his words would ever reach the woman. For all she had done for him, she herself remained mysterious as the Sphinx: unwilling to be known. Maybe forever.
And that brought a smile to the man’s face; it was enough that she had been there and was now a part of his story.
As he finished the final goodbyes, the postscript, and the post-postscript, he finally was able to feel the weight of the clouded “unknown” transform into an uplifting feeling of closure. He sat there for a long, long time, listening to the fire crackle in the hearth and the rain patter-patter against the glass behind him. Rain? Hadn’t it just been snowing? Turning, he looked out across the glistening leaves of the forest outside. How long had he taken, writing this letter? Glancing back at the ink-stained paper, the man carefully folded the letter, placing it between the folds of yet another book and put it away.
There was no rush in mailing it. Perhaps, he never would. After all, they were all words she had heard before. What mattered is that he had finally finished it. Signed it. Committed the past to the page. The tangle of words was no longer there. The heartache washed away like the cold snow melted by the warm rain.
I don’t write for catharsis; I have to write to understand.
Joan Didion
I thank you reader, for allowing me this moment of personal reflection.
More stories are on the horizon, with a return to the short form content featured in the early days of this blog. Hopefully you are all on board for that.
UWC 