My friend is an English professor who reminds me of John Keating from the Dead Poets Society. She is a prolific writer and blogger too. Her love of Jesus and of those around her oozes out of her writing and conversation.
It seems to take friends like this to reignite my love of writing. We were talking a few weeks ago, and she suggested a short writing idea. It felt so good to write again--to write about a memory, to write about anything.
I like to have ideas and drafts waiting for me to poke at, to prod, to contribute to and prune.
This afternoon, I decided to eat an orange outside in the sun for a few moments, and I thought about the verbs and nouns around me. I felt the sun beating down on me and the black bench outside my lab. Heat radiates to me directly from our star, and from beneath me through the energy contained in the metal bench, warming and washing me from head to toe. Somehow today brings the cleanest warmth imagined, so I sit, and I munch. The plump navel orange peels easily, leaving me with sticky sweet hands while I eat.
My lightly freckled, blonde haired hands soak it in, pale and white after the bitter, refreshing winter. They bring each plump bit of pale citrus from its place on my juice dotted lap to my lips, waiting with breath abated.
With each bite I'm tenuously satisfied, yet have the desire for more, to jump into a pit of pulpy orange juice and let it saturate my pores, inhale it deeply and breathe it.
The moment is brief, but delicious. Busyness will squeeze the enjoyment of a moment like this from our lives, so I enjoy it while I can.
I'm determined not to be squeezed out like my snack, unless it be into the maw of the worthwhile.
No comments:
Post a Comment