A Word About Maps … As I looked into my bathroom mirror this morning, (and combed what few hairs I have left on my head) … a curious thought came to me: I’m not sure when I discovered it, really. How difficult it is to re-fold a map, I mean. I’ve probably got fifty different maps in my car, or stuck away in junk drawers I never open; And none of those maps are folded like they were when I first got them.
He said, ‘Light,” and the light came on. Just like that. Simple, for God. And His face lit up. And all of heaven must of noticed. And God surely must have smiled, as he said “Good.” Day after day, God created…
often wonder what He thought, and what it must have been like?
Thirty-three years old, and just getting started in life, and yet?
He found himself on that long walk toward Jerusalem … to carry That Cross
This morning, I saw a most peculiar sign. And I seemed to be the only one who noticed. This morning started out slower than most mornings, for me. I didn’t sleep well last night, and that caused me to be a little slow in rising this morning. Normally, I’m out of the house early. But today, it was already light outside when I left the house.
I read a quote from Ernest Hemingway once that I thought was so good that I wrote it down in a book of quotes I keep. He said, “I learned never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that feed it.”
Sitting in the Charlotte airport, waiting. The morning wakens; people stir on Concourse C. A wave of souls walking, moving, dragging wheeled belongings behind them. Clack, clack, clack, clack. I hear her coming down the concourse long before I see her frumpled image.
I hear you have to develop the ‘eye’ of a writer to be any good at it. Have to learn how to see things other people don’t notice, And pay attention to matters that don’t matter until you — the writer — say they matter. Socks, for example: I’m sitting in a coffee shop noticing that people don’t wear socks with sandals. Three ladies stand in line, waiting for their lattes.
I guess they found it; the van, I mean. A few days ago, people I’ve never met, nameless, faceless people who didn’t even know me Did a rude and insolent thing. They stole from me. They took my car. Actually, they took my van. Drove it, as if it was their very own.
This morning, as dawn’s light peeked over the distant peaks, White with winter’s cold reminiscence, summer happened. Can you imagine? Without my help or permission, summer happened. No one had to waken me. My bed would not be still; my weary carcass refused rest. In the darkened quiet of night, a sound, as I thumped my pillow’s cooler side.