Thursday, August 04, 2011


Psalms 34:17  The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles.
As a writer, I enjoy the quiet still mornings where the only sounds I hear is the refrigerator kicking on and off, the creaks of the bed where slumberers are still resting and the wind gently tapping on the window, stirring my muse.

When I was kid, I would go to the park and that is where I would never be found on a seesaw, or a maypole, or sliding board, I could be seen swinging high into the clouds. I’d go so high, I often imagined that I could fly and sometimes, with my eyes closed, I did. In the air of the swings forward motion, I flew off of the swing and soared above the park and saw all the people below laughing, giggling, inane behavior,  while the grass swayed, the clouds spun and I was free, finally free, until I realized, I was just sitting on a swing.

Even as a child I liked isolating myself from people. Maybe that is why I chose to write at such a young age, because no one really liked me, I had few friends, and life was isolation for me, reading and writing.

I don’t isolate intentionally. One day I’m happy go lucky, then I turn around and I’m alone in my thoughts with words bouncing like ping pong balls off the page. Words in a sea of foam, go crashing front and center and elude me but I catch them and toss them onto paper and then, it happens, I’ve written a thousand words that I didn’t even know were lurking in there.

I have this thing with wanting sincere people around me. Whether online or offline, I like people who are sure of where they are going, know where they have been, and have found that God is the only thing in life that will get them from point A to point B.

I can count my genuine friends on one hand, and that’s if I had a few digits missing. The genuine one’s reach out to me, comfort me, and make me feel loved, the others use words words words to convey their sincerity and to me, it is more hurtful than actually comforting me in my time of need. And most, who claim sincerity, wave me off like butter on a piece of toast.

Isolation to a writer is a place of contemplation. The small things run off the shoulder like water off a gooses back, (Canadian friends inside joke there.) It’s the larger and grander things that aren’t so easy to just let roll. They’re there, and you have to face them, write about them and move forward! So today, as my friends whoop and holler and have a grand old time, I will cherish the ones that embrace me in my isolation, love me in the darkness of the day, and bring sunshine and light to a cloudy day.
Thank you!

1 comment:

benning said...