I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.

HEAD-SLAPS, SPEED-BUMPS and LIGHT-BULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.



Sunday, March 9, 2014

Oh my, what a moment



Sometimes when I am in my office writing I play New Age, quietly. If the music is too beautiful it is distracting so I keep it low, just to fill the void of thought which seems to hover around me when I’m searching. And sometimes the music is just loud enough to negate the constant ticking of the dollar three-ninety-nothing clock which metronomes my time in this place. Occasionally that clock can be an annoying constant heartbeat but often I find it comforting.

Tonight, for a special few minutes, the clock and the music were in perfect synchronization.

For a moment I wondered why the clock was making music and then I realized it was its own little percussion section up there on top of the file cabinet. Deuter’s, East of the Full Moon’s, Vibrant Dust was playing quietly, its beat matching the per-second heartbeat of the small clock. If the music had been turned up only slightly I would not have noticed the addition to the orchestra.

When I realized how the two machines were in rhythm I stopped writing and listened, really listened and felt, really felt, how, at that moment, all three of us were conjoined. Eyes closed, I swayed, my breathing split the beat, the ticking, the music, my own sense of life force, I felt blessed to be presented with such a moment to ponder.  

It gave me pause. In those scant few seconds I was reminded that sometimes, just sometimes, everything drifts into place seamlessly. And it is up to us to notice when our windshield wipers conduct the band and our clocks accompany the orchestra. It is up to us to notice when the beat within us complements life.  

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