She could see what he was doing, of course: He was sitting in an easy chair, staring at the spot up across the room where the light green paint of the wall met the white of the ceiling. He had a blank page in his lap and a pen in his hand, but all he was doing was staring.
“I’m writing,” he said.
“Posh,” she retorted. “You’re sitting like a lump of lard wasting the day away.”
He turned to her and grinned.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re so welcome,” she sneered, and stalked away.
And he began to write: “‘What are you doing?’ She could see what he was doing, of course …”
“Good morning, world! Thank you for the rest,” he cried. “You know who I am; I know who I am. I’m glad we had this chat; let’s get down to business.”
Harmonies poured from his soul — answers snapped to his fingers — his mind and body answered the call. This would be a good day. The doubt that often nagged him was today a minor nudge, and a little bit of anxiety never crippled anyone. In fact, he could shape a little bit of anxiety into a ball of excitement and hurl it like a knuckleball at a befuddled batter.
“To what do I owe this jubilant feeling?” he said with a satisfied smile.
“To whom,” boomed the voice of God.
“Oh,” he said. “Hello.”
“I have to say I am feeling — shall we say — neglected,” God said. “And, I might remind you, I am a jealous God.”
“Pshaw. You’re a loving God, a forgiving God,” he said.
There was a poignant pause. Then God smiled at him.
I am approaching the end of another journal; this one has taken something more than just two months to fill, and I looked back to the early pages to find something I’ve already shared that bears repeating:
“Add to the beauty or add to the despair — each of us has two choices — more than two, actually, infinite choices — but each of us adds something every day.”
Each day is a series of givings and receivings. We give of ourselves, and we receive what others give. May our mutual goal be to add to the beauty with our giving.
Encourage in the face of despair.
Hold a light in the darkness.
Love in the face of hate.
There’s a rugged road, as Judee Sill sang. Meet it with hope, meet it with a stubborn intention to smooth the path for the next traveler coming along, a stubborn refusal to be ruffled by the potholes and cracks in the pavement.
Each of us adds something every day — may my contributions make it better.
It’s written in the biggest letters of all the tiny signs around my writing station: HAVE FUN. Because I know it’s the most important message to myself. If the writing isn’t fun, it’s harder.
The easiest writing is when your heart of hearts is bouncing with glee, the story is pouring out of your fingers faster than they can type, because the fingers are connected to your brain, but the real feeling is in your heart — your chest is busting with energy from the amazing story coming out.