Sometimes at exactly 3, I sit straight up in bed as if someone called my name.
I sense something, a presence that I realize is just me calling out to myself.
My mind at once opens one of two drawers. One marked trouble, the other grace, if I pause, choosing the latter.
Writing is the first gift kept on top…my art, my love of words, communing on the page. It also resides in the trouble file as though grace was bleeding from it’s bottom, feeling inadequate in my abilities.
The clock ticks loudly at 3 a.m. giving each prospective equal time to state it’s case.
Who do you think you are, makes his appearance next to, boy was your mother right when she said, you were stupid. Toss in those you thought were friends who behind your back ridicule and you’re breaking pencils, tearing pages, determined to remove your hard drive.
Then when the prosecution rests, quite full of itself, the defense sweeps in like the creative cavalry to prove, such claims are untrue.
Victory, though shaky, is mine as I write down bones to a blog piece, or lay track for the next paragraph to a short story.
I stretch my legs, massage my wrists then listen to those who too were on trial with themselves coming before me.
Dwell in possibility, Emily Dickinson says, as I nod letting go of my supreme need to control all outcomes.
There’s no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you, adds Maya Angelou, echoing that need to write.
No tears in the writer means, no tears in the reader. Thank you Mr. (Robert) Frost, this is so comforting.
And if my doubts still persist Anne Frank appears like a falling star to say, I can shake off everything as I write, my sorrows disappear. My courage is reborn.
Remember, grace meets us where we are Susannah, but does not leave us where it found us. Anne Lamott.
The defense rests