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Sadness crept in like a fog. She’d tried so many different versions of the right answer, and not one of them seem to be growing her business. Her shoulders felt heavy; the short walk to her desk endless. She sat staring out the window as the late September crickets rasped. It was then that she noticed it, a tiny corner of ivory paper sticking out from a stack of business books. One of the first thank you cards she’d ever received, a note from someone she’d helped just by talking to her.
It was midday, and there were only a few cars in the park. I stepped onto the trail, and soon the path became overgrown. Plants brushed my ankles. My thoughts flitted, jumped. Chiggers, poison ivy, heat cramps. Does the GPS on my phone work out here?
The bridge over the marsh dipped, and dragonflies floated across the water.
As my mind rattled on through these thoughts, my soul-self waited patiently to settle into a quieter state among the trees.
“How are you?" I call tentatively.
The room is dark. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling. I reach my hand out, waving it in the dark till it touches the string; and I pull. The click frightens us both in the silence. I see cobwebs hanging from the rafters. The light is weak against the thick gloom gathered in the corners, but it's there. A small circle of yellow on the dirt floor.
Sometimes when we move toward what our souls are longing for, we get afraid. Afraid of what others will think. Afraid of failing. Afraid that there isn’t really a way to make what we long to do happen.
I've found many reasons to write in my life. I've written while traveling alone, staying at hostels across Italy and marveling at the vibrant kindness of strangers. I've lived in Morocco and Argentina, and I've written through culture shock and through not speaking the language, desperate I'd never understand.
