Three weeks ago, my NaNoWriMo goals were set in a post called, From NYC to Temple Bar. Since then, Syrian refugees, Beirut, Paris, more refugees, and helpless sorrow. Often my goals seem naive and superficial, but never so much as now.
My wish to write isn’t lofty. It’s a need, buried long under layers of responsibility, and like a dormant tulip bulb, finally flowering in a small pocket of soil set free of its layers of leaves.
I’m a genre writer; my words are of love and friendship; of loneliness’s pain and of healing relationships. I am not a journalist or historian, reporting and righting the wrongs of the world. My words do not cut ahead of me as my sword. I’m don’t have courage to fight dragons and demons.
Though I wish I did. I think.
Last week, amid the world’s chaos, I worked from home, my laptop set up at my kitchen table. It had been raining. Soft sounds of raindrops tiptoed on roof and windows, and my keyboard kept time. Sometime between my last cup of coffee and noon, the beat slowed and stopped and the white sun burned through the gray sky.
Outside my window, a barren tree, moments before black and foreboding, grabbed hold of light. Each minuscule drop of water absorbed, refracted and reflected, until pinpricks of pink, purple, green, lit the tree with tiny, distinct, separate and beautiful, points of color.
And all I can do is pray. I think.