For Pam, who reminds me that I'm a writer!
Funny. I had been running around since 7 a.m. trying to prepare, organize, decorate & cater a surprise birthday party for my sister-in-law. It was now 1:30 pm and with about an hour to spare before the party, I decided I needed to just sit in the sunshine. I was tired. I hadn’t slept well the night before. I was hungry—opting to skip breakfast and now lunch. I was lonely. My sister Lisa had just left after helping out. I JUST NEEDED TO BE.
Then I spotted a yellow pad of paper and a pen. Suddenly, I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t tired, or hungry, or lonely. I was ecstatic. Blank pages to fill. The soft yellow of the paper—like writing on a buttercup in the sun. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, all came to me in words—falling on my head like raindrops. I inhaled deeply, lifted my head to heaven and welcomed them
Leaves changing colors. Mountains that look as though they’ve been sprinkled with Fruity Pebbles. The softest whisper of a breeze telling me what to write. The warmth of the sunshine on my pages, pulling thoughts from me like a magnet. Birds cawing encouragement. Autumn leaves so varied in color and size and texture—begging for me to describe them to the world, so that they might live on. Solitude singing in my ear, “You are a writer!” WRITE! Cerulean-blue skies the color of Jerry’s eyes. Soft, white clouds float effortlessly. A single autumnal orange leaf dances to the ground silently, joining a multitude of leaves that are firecracker-crisp.
A yellow piece of paper and a pen.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
A Yellow Piece of Paper and a Pen
For Pam, who reminds me that I'm a writer!
Funny. I had been running around since 7 a.m. trying to prepare, organize, decorate & cater a surprise birthday party for my sister-in-law. It was now 1:30 pm and with about an hour to spare before the party, I decided I needed to just sit in the sunshine. I was tired. I hadn’t slept well the night before. I was hungry—opting to skip breakfast and now lunch. I was lonely. My sister Lisa had just left after helping out. I JUST NEEDED TO BE.
Then I spotted a yellow pad of paper and a pen. Suddenly, I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t tired, or hungry, or lonely. I was ecstatic. Blank pages to fill. The soft yellow of the paper—like writing on a buttercup in the sun. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, all came to me in words—falling on my head like raindrops. I inhaled deeply, lifted my head to heaven and welcomed them
Leaves changing colors. Mountains that look as though they’ve been sprinkled with Fruity Pebbles. The softest whisper of a breeze telling me what to write. The warmth of the sunshine on my pages, pulling thoughts from me like a magnet. Birds cawing encouragement. Autumn leaves so varied in color and size and texture—begging for me to describe them to the world, so that they might live on. Solitude singing in my ear, “You are a writer!” WRITE! Cerulean-blue skies the color of Jerry’s eyes. Soft, white clouds float effortlessly. A single autumnal orange leaf dances to the ground silently, joining a multitude of leaves that are firecracker-crisp.
A yellow piece of paper and a pen.
Funny. I had been running around since 7 a.m. trying to prepare, organize, decorate & cater a surprise birthday party for my sister-in-law. It was now 1:30 pm and with about an hour to spare before the party, I decided I needed to just sit in the sunshine. I was tired. I hadn’t slept well the night before. I was hungry—opting to skip breakfast and now lunch. I was lonely. My sister Lisa had just left after helping out. I JUST NEEDED TO BE.
Then I spotted a yellow pad of paper and a pen. Suddenly, I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t tired, or hungry, or lonely. I was ecstatic. Blank pages to fill. The soft yellow of the paper—like writing on a buttercup in the sun. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, all came to me in words—falling on my head like raindrops. I inhaled deeply, lifted my head to heaven and welcomed them
Leaves changing colors. Mountains that look as though they’ve been sprinkled with Fruity Pebbles. The softest whisper of a breeze telling me what to write. The warmth of the sunshine on my pages, pulling thoughts from me like a magnet. Birds cawing encouragement. Autumn leaves so varied in color and size and texture—begging for me to describe them to the world, so that they might live on. Solitude singing in my ear, “You are a writer!” WRITE! Cerulean-blue skies the color of Jerry’s eyes. Soft, white clouds float effortlessly. A single autumnal orange leaf dances to the ground silently, joining a multitude of leaves that are firecracker-crisp.
A yellow piece of paper and a pen.
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