It was a cold February day from my perch on the library's third floor. The heat pumped into the building making many forget the frosty temperature on the other side of the brick walls. Not me. I liked to sit near the window. Windows lead to possibilities.
Today a trail of footprints wound around the trees that stuck out of the fresh blanket of snow. Shadows of the campus buildings hovered over their path and the faint whistle of the winter wind could be heard playing its flute.
That trail. I couldn't peel my eyes from the two sets of footprints weaving in and out of the trees. When winter hides the path, you're not afraid to make your own.
I wondered: were those the footprints of siblings having fun? Did it ignite a spark of love between two friends as they chased each other through the snow? Was is a father and child seeking a sledding hill?
Then a yearning began to grow inside. How I wanted my own adventure out in that world of possibilities. Would there be a new friend in that snow globe for me? Would a deer skip through my quiet world and arose my curiosity? Would spontaneity grab ahold of my gloved hand and help me build a snowman? Would I slip and fall and have a humiliating story? Would I fail that chemistry test because I chose to walk out on studying? Would this decision change everything?
Windows may lead to possibilities, but walking out the door of intention is a lot harder.
For so long it's been me: me and my shadow.
We scaled mountains, drove 2,000 solo miles, hiked through national parks with trees larger than skyscrapers, and ate at a quiet table for one.
It was the only one to watch me stumble upon the walls of stone as high as the sun and marvel at the rivers that run as wildly as the mustangs on the shore.
At times I'm sure she stood beside me, wishing for a slap in the face at my stupidity or wanting to applaud the destiny I've made my own. I find her silent song comforting. It alone knows the courage of my soul.
While trying to find a pair of walkie-talkies in a deep and crowded kitchen drawer, a member of my family exclaimed in agitation, "Junk drawers! You can only find things when you're not looking for them!"
It struck me with amusement: is that not how a writer lives and breathes?
Life is a junk drawer. You're busy finding your keys in order take the kids to school when the best sentence pops into your brain and a storyline begins. Instead of your keys, you're now tracking down a pen and scrap of paper to record the fluttering thoughts as the children lose their shoes and complain in the background.
Well, welcome to my junk drawer.
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