Every Friday, there will be a prompt to lead us to the weekend. I would love to see your responses or thoughts about process in the comments. Or, even better? Leave us a link to your own blog and response there!
I challenge you to sit, breathing just like you do, and just see the world around you. Just a few minutes, a few breaths. Then, set a timer or page limit (for however long you want), and WRITE! Just put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard). Don’t stop. Don’t think. Just ground yourself in the prompt. Come back to it if you need to. But, for all that is good in this world, tell us your story.
I honestly have no idea where this week’s prompt came from. But, here is one response, of a thousand million billion responses. I was in a coffee shop when this was written.
The timer was set for 10 minutes.
I’ve been worried about not being enough, knowing enough, the place in my brain that strains to protect, protect, protect what? Protect whom? Protection from the outside in, inside out. How do we know what matters?
Here is what I have – I have curly unruly hair. I have a blue pen and pen marks on my fingers. I am starting to have nails. I have a strong desire to prove myself. I have no idea what that means? I have the world in my lie and shoes on my feet. I have the glasses to see and I take them off to clean them, so I have clearer vision. I have a wedding band on my ring finger on my left hand. I have a notebook or two of ideas, a notebook or one hundred of journals, and I have an insatiable curiosity. I have a history I am trying to own, to hold with both hands, to be gentle with and to not shatter on the floor. Dropping it from such great great heights – what would happen? I have strong feelings about losing history – how do we understand the world without a context of history? What lenses do I have by which I see this brilliant world? How do I understand the tender parts I have and pull in close? How do I protect what I have while giving it all away? Give away all I have – spend it all, spend it now, because what I have could be gone tomorrow.
I watch the streams of people flow in and out, the door banging in its hinges while I sip bittersweet hot cocoa. I am eavesdropping on conversations and pen clicks, legs bouncing and chairs scraping the floor as I write. I have this table, scarred and a bit wobbly, and I think it’s a bit like me – it’s a bit like me and I want to tell it that I value it, but don’t own it – mine is one butt in thousands that have warmed this seat.