The week has been strange in the aftermath of the storm. While my office remains dark, I’ve spent the days writing and, for too few hours, I offered help where I could. I usually see time as a gift but, this week, I am clumsy and uncertain with it. As soon as I open my curious eyes to every image, I want to close them. One moment I’m desperate to step outside then I do and I want to go home. Like fishing lure. Cast out. Reeled in.
I keep returning to this idea of remaining quiet. Still.
In the stretches of silence, I have been given endless room to reflect on my work. To come to realizations about characters and plot. To finally understand how a story must end (no matter how much it will hurt my heart to write the words, to take my characters there.) Decisions that once seemed drastic suddenly seem just right. So I feel a strange sense of peace where I have otherwise felt all tangled up.
I don’t know what I mean to say. I don’t know where the connections are. I guess I’m just grateful for all I’ve been given this week while so much has been swept away.