I am
blogging daily responses to a series of questions and prompts created by Gwen
Bell and today’s question revolved around “the best rush” which I translate
into “excited or transcendent bliss”….
My practice is to start my writing for the challenge the
day before – so I knew yesterday, immediately what my best rush was – my best
poetry performance ever - and had a vague idea of how to tackle the moment with
words. I knew I had written about it as it happened, so the plan was to return
to that moment and re-immerse myself into the rush and hopefully come out with
something inspiring to share with the world.
I was a little troubled, though, because that “rush”
experience for me came alongside an incident that continues to nag at me: one
friend purposefully shaming and humiliating another friend, publicly – and on
purpose. Well, one of them is still my friend. The other, I haven’t heard from
since that day.
It WAS such a rush, though – I mean, how often does a
young, way-more-cool-than-me guy proclaim to his buddies, “Man, that lady in
the blue dress *expletive* kicked it in there….”
Last night after my best performance yet in the current
production I am in,
As Is at Bakersfield Community Theater, I drove home as the sun was
beginning its descent. Something in the way the light hit my windshield
connected with something in my heart which was having a tough time negotiating
the “back to Mommy” process awaiting me after that high level of a soul
performance on stage… so I went straight rather than turning left toward home and
found myself at one of my favorite close-to-home, hang out in the great
outdoors places.
I grabbed my notebook and my camera and found a place to
sit, to write, to witness.
I heard the leaves behind me surrender to footsteps and
the snapping of a piece of wood and I startled, turning from my writing post.
Something told me I could continue trusting the moment and allow this probably
vagrant man who introduces himself as David to take photos for me as I wrote.
What came next became my rush of the year.
He
said he is incognito in his helping me, as my “photographer for this moment”…
He
says, “Look up” and I keep writing, with the sunset.
Fading
it is and it burns my eye so I look away.
He
admires the light, I admire his admiration. “Just keep snapping” I tell him.
He
does.
I am
writing the sunset.
The
clouds, thick grey. Eyes, hurt, the sun disappearing, surrendering to time. My
new friend, loudly, leaves. “If you want me to,” after the “I’ll leave you
alone…”
With
the sunset there is no wanting to, there just is… I hear the raindrops join me
but I can’t see them. David comes back, starts telling me a story. A wise ass
girl carrying cameras around her neck walks by with her admiring young beau.
Oh,
very funny.
Raindrops.
Keep. Coming. Splatter. My Pages. Harder.
The
sun knows it is time to go. It leaves its reflection in a whispered, “Remember
me” the glow speaks, “I am 93,000,000 miles close.”
Do
you see the rain drops close? I see them close. The light. All the time.
Reflected here and in the moon’s face. In my face. I wonder how David’s photos
turned out but I keep looking at the sunset, keep my pencil moving.
We
leave. We come back. We’re magnets to one another. Our hearts send pulsing
invitations others push against to resist or open to in order to say yes. Some
go, some leave, for good. “Leave before dark,” he says. The leaves, turning
back into soil to feed the tree they sprang from – they smell like home.
I
need to be in a place that smells like this more often. I need to be in a place
where it rains more than here.
“Maybe
I’ll be in your book,” he says with light hope filling his breath.
“Maybe
you will,” I tell him, “You just never know…. Drives my family crazy that I do
that…” I see the last tiny meringue top of the sun, fading from view. My nose
sniffles. Think of a better metaphor for the next draft.
I’m
not hearing any God sounds, which is ok, which is cool. The very moisture which
feeds me may quiet those sounds.
A man
in a cowboy hat is across the way, looking for something.
I
notice there, on the horizon, is the back of Memorial Hospital.
I didn’t know I could see it from here.
“Your
face was different today,” Billie Joe said as I reached for his hand for
curtain call. “There was a different quality to your expression,” he said.
I
feel like I am getting closer.
Sometimes
re-entry takes time.
Bliss
happens. And it feels so good when it does.
It
was December 13 all over again. I was so glad I took a rather small, savoring
slice of my life on that day to notice, to celebrate, to write the sunset.
Julie publishes her ezine, the Daily Passion Activator, which includes an Essay and a Poem every week day - inspiration delivered directly into your email box - Why not Subscribe today? It's free.
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