I Wanted to Write

I wanted to write. I wanted to write. There, on the bliffs, sunshine still bright as it begins its habitual descent. 

My eyes hurt, their vision clearly spent, yet I still wanted to write.

In retrospect I know the aching in my eyes came from photographing the sun so avidly. I had forgotten the warnings from generations of mothers, “Don’t look directly into the sun!”

I somehow forgot in the passion of the lense that the warning words included when there is that small square of glass separating eyes from our precious morning star.

I noticed as I looked through the lense and saw the result that sometimes the beams are too bright and literally block out the view. We need a veil between us then, a way of seeing without so much light.  Sometimes we need to angle ourselves differently, adjust so that the light isn’t so oppressive and bossy.

I found that quite intriguing, the concept of “too much light.”

This walk was more of a stroll and consider than anything else.  It got me out of the house, allowed me the room to write, to think, to contemplate, to ask questions of myself and sit, quietly, to allow the responses to gently open the door a crack so that the beginnings of understanding could be touched and sniffed and cradled.

It was dry on my walk, overly bright and dry. The sun flirted with me. It winked at me from behind rooftops and tree limbs. What is this, nature, flirting with me? It has been happening regularly lately.

Familiar places took on a new hue that day.

I see a bicyclist and I want to grab his ipod and tug it free from his ears.  “Listen to the wind!” my heart commands.  He hums to the tune being played via his electronic device before straddling his bicycle and peddling away.

I opened the words of Shakespeare, rolled onto my back on a metal, grated bench, and looked at the darkening sky canopy above me.