I knew I couldn’t stay away for long. I’ve had words building up inside of me for the last few weeks and I need to let them out. I’m writing for myself only, no false fronts, no hiding behind cliched posts, just honest and true words.
I feel as though I lose a little control whenever I don’t write, a small part of me just feels off. Stringing letters into words into sentences into paragraphs into a post, a letter, a story is comforting and routine and structured, something that has been hard for me to achieve this year. With this being Joe’s gap year, David finishing up his first novel and taking a week off every month to put on the final touches, my daily routine has been horribly off kilter. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been an incredible year with my photography hobby slowly growing into a photography business and, as I mentioned above, David’s first book about to go public. The family has been healthy and happy, the kids each having found love and “really, really like” ‘s. My confidence has grown by leaps and bounds and outwardly, I appear calm, cool and collected, but inside I feel as though I could lose it at any given moment. A small storm seems to always be brewing inside me just beneath the surface. I pace around the house like a caged animal, feeling chaotic and frantic and so out of control. Running helps, walking the dog does, too. But it’s writing everything out that helps the most.
I don’t really like writing at a computer, I prefer writing long hand, something that David laughs about and, I’m afraid, is slowly going the way of the Dodo. That blinking cursor mocks me and my spelling goes all to hell, making me backspace and delete every other word, it seems. I’ve never been that great a typer to begin with, so when I’m having to delete all the time, it kinda makes it harder to free think and to free write, and then auto correct chimes in with suggestions which don’t make any sense, so it’s all rather frustrating.
But when the words flow freely from my mind and out through my finger tips, that’s when peace and calmness settle upon me like a light blanket. And the storm inside begins to subside.
As I near the small tunnel that goes underneath Rupple Road, I begin to look for my little family of deer that always leap out from the underbrush that lines the trail I run along every day. They’re a momma and two teenagers, just as curious about me as I am about them. They think they’re hidden by the dead bushes and leafless branches of the woods, and they almost are with their tawny colored coats and their statuesque stances. It’s only when they twitch their ears or the momma stamps her leg as a warning to me that I see them.
Today they stay hidden and I continue my trot down the pavement. Suddenly, a flurry of wings makes me whip my head up to the tall sycamore to my left just in time to see the great round face of an owl. I stop (I always stop when I see wildlife, marveling at the chance to witness such grace and beauty during my run) and exclaim out loud, “An owl!” His round face is white and his eyes, his eyes! Big, round, black as two bits of coal. He looks at me long and hard, just as I look at him long and hard, memorizing everything about him so I’ll never forget the morning I met an owl. The sky was overcast and wintery looking and breath fogged out of my mouth as I stood there panting, sweat beginning to seep into my eyes. There was no one else on the trail that quiet morning, just me, looking down the creek as the owl flew westward on his silent wings.
I look for him every day now, just as I look for my herd of deer, but all I know of him is just his lullaby he sings as the sun sinks in the evening sky.