There is something wild that beckons you. You don’t know why you sit there, but you do. You begin. You set one word in front of the other and then you wait. You sit, hunched over, waiting for the thing to fill you, like clear water, and overflow. Your page catches the spill.
You had a string of not-so-good days, and you just didn’t feel like writing. They weren’t bad days, but they were spent waiting, and that felt like a waste. You were in a holding pattern with no landing strip in sight. You are still waiting, except that now it doesn’t matter. None of it matters but the words, these ones right here. The house is quiet, the kids are asleep. The wind has picked up.
The way you approach one moment determines everything that follows. Because – you know this – it’s all about perspective. Of course, knowing something doesn’t mean you can remember it when you’re up in the clouds. Sometimes you forget. You really dislike waiting. When you wait, you feel that time can no longer be measured properly.
Earlier today you indulged in reminiscence. You realized with a start that the most difficult times in your life were shaped by this very same feeling of suspended time. Your daughter was born well past her due date, which forced you to sit with the unknown as with an unwelcome guest. Your father fell terminally ill, and again you had to wait, this time for death instead of birth. Each time the waiting came to an abrupt end and you were dropped back into your life, bewildered.
The similarities between birth and death do not escape you. In fact, they fascinate you. But some things can only be touched ever so delicately, and you are careful not to dwell on the two bookends of life. You are in the middle of it now, and this is where you need to be – surrounded by words and water, rising up and easing down, answering the call of the wild.