A Guilt Offering

ok. i suck at keeping this guy updated lately. sorry.
out of guilt i'm felt like i needed to throw something up here. since i don't feel like creating right now ... i'll borrow.

so earlier this week, in one of my education classes, we were told to spend a couple minutes writing about our day, as sorta a "let's focus" exercise -- ya know, a story or something interesting that happened to you that day. Here's what i wrote...

Writing. Writing into space. Thoughts. So many. Blowing by, like leaves in the wind. Which ones should I reach out and catch? Which ones do I let fly by me and settle on the ground in some undetermined spot; Time and Space to be determined.

Focus. Closing my eyes to let the dark settle around me softly. Using my ears to hear the leaves themselves rather than the vibrancy of their color, shape and speed as they swirl around in the untamable Wind of Idea. Exhale. Think. Focus. Listen. Quiet. Listen.

I'm hearing the sounds of school work to be done, social activism, a call for the rest and comfort of home, the changing of seasons, my need to find a job, my fears about leaving town, growing up; the instruction to write and all the Unspoken Expectation and Freedom that comes with that -- these are all the leaves blowing around me.

And yet, my hand doesn't rise. Doesn't reach out. Doesn't catch. My fingers twitch, but my hands remain steadily down at sides, like the long weights inside an old grandfather clock, slowly swinging back and forth. keeping Time. Unthreatening.

More silence. More thought.

It's getting late now. I should have something significant written down -- something started. Though nagged, I don't worry too much.

Because I know, I know that by not securing down topic or direction I'm still capturing thought; thought that is perhaps more lovely and free and true than re-spitting someone else's thoughts or opinions or something that I once heard said somewhere.

Peeping through my eyelashes I've noticed that my hands aren't down by my sides anymore -- nor are they holding on to anything. The leaves and the Wind are still twirling about me, but my arms are extended, my hands open -- not clutching a thought, but perhaps letting one go.

Exhale.