bulletin board stripped clean ~
Writing is a way of laying your armor down. It's a surrendering to the truth of your mind, the physical sensations of the body, to the present moment. All which will change in the next instant.
Writing shows you all the memories from the past that get carted along from place to place, like the box of old albums that may be worth something but really, they are dust gatherers. Either take the time to discern their worth, or give them away. Toss even. You won't die from this. Instead, a small space of breath opens up.
Beyond the past is the clutter of future visions, stacked neatly in the corner, the adventurous travels, the refreshed romance of a marriage, published books, wads of money in the bank account, the sweet sensation of security. Ah, yes, now I am safe. Now I am secure. When this happens, and that happens. When all the big and little boxes are stacked just so, peace will wash over you.
In the quiet of the upstairs bedroom, cat on lap, cup of morning tea, the chips fall onto the page, past future all calling for my attention pick me pick me while the warm body of my snoring cat is felt through the blanket, a bird squawks, the sky looks like rain, then sun sweeps through the room.
In this moment,
thanks to black Flair pen
and small notebook, full up with words,
I'm remembering how really great it felt to strip the bulletin board near my laundry room. A storm blew through me on a Saturday morning, tossing old business cards, the long written to-do list for the house, postcards from places I love but may never get back to.
I stripped it clean and got on with my day.