Today must be a “working on the book day” she told herself even though she was chock-full of doubt. She didn’t really want to visit her made-up friends, pretend friends who had big, lively lives full of the things she found lacking in hers. Still, she was determined to snap out of her funk and push aside the self-pity. She’d been on a streak and didn’t want to break the momentum – not yet, not today.
Sitting down for the third time (the first time she merely opened her computer before finding an excuse to wander off; the second, she managed to get as far as putting on some concentration music to play before she got up to get another cup of tea), she immediately started scanning for different background sounds. She wasn’t a fan of the pan flute – at all. Don’t drag this out, she scolded, the pan flute is the least of your problems.
Ah-ha! Got it. A channel with the right stuff, sounds that blended perfectly with the birdsong reaching in through the open window in her writing room.
Okay, she says out loud, it’s time to write! The birds didn’t seem to care.
When Word opens a document you’ve been working on, a little tag appears on the right hand side of the screen. Clicking on what looks like the end of a ribbon will, in less than a blink, escort you to the page you were last on. This is such a handy tool for her because, regrettably, she doesn’t open her manuscript daily, and so sometimes forgets where she left off. When that happens, she is forced to scan through hundreds of pages which is not only an onerous task, but a huge waste time waster. Every time that little tag appears, she bows to Chuck and Rick from Microsoft. Can you believe they made this magic way back in 1983? Seems like yesterday.
Anywho, it’s been a good and productive few days for her, but there are some – uh – issues weighing her down, standing between her and Muse, making her out of sorts, sort of. She asks herself how the whole bloody sky itself can be irritating? The question is rhetorical, of course, but the truth is that the sky above is, currently, an irritation to her. It looks in between, undecided, flustered. It is light but dull, cloudy with blotches of sun here and there. It looks bored. It’s as if it can’t make up its mind, a thing she needs it to do so she can make up hers.
At least the music she found is pleasant. No more pan flutes.
Closing her eyes against the annoying sky (she can type with them closed, you see) her fingers begin a skilful dance with the keys. She’s not editing, no. She can’t do that with her eyes closed, but she can explore an idea or three and jot down some notes about those ideas, all while practicing writing with her eyes closed, something every decent writer should be proficient at.
Suddenly, she is flying. That’s right, flying. Not literally. People cannot fly. But in her imagination she is descending a flight of stairs sans feet. It is miraculous. The image and accompanying feelings are familiar because the scene conjured today is from a recent dream. In that dream she flew several times. She did not fly high. It wasn’t about height. It was about trying. Oh, and it was about trust. She had to trust that if she felt into her buoyancy and pushed off the edge of those stairs that she would catch a breeze and soar on its breath, if only for a few seconds. By the way. In the dream there were folks watching. They were awed.
Keeping her eyes closed, she surrenders to the images in her dreamscape. Revisiting it like this allows her to unwrap the feelings she experienced there. Such potential. Such freedom. Such lightness of being.
Opening her eyes, she looks out that open window. The sky still irritates her, but less so. That dream was a gift, she tells herself, one she fashioned with the help of ancestors, visionaries, and other beatific energies who exist for humanity’s benefit. Yes, there are energies within and without us, and we get to choose which ones we want. She decides she wants the ones that reminded her she could fly.
Wishing you all find your wings.