Thinking about…

A friend and I get together and walk every two weeks or so to catch up. Walking took the place of coffee sitting a long time ago.

Once the hugs of greeting are given; cell phones and keys are tucked away in various pockets; and hats fitted into place – we get to the task of walking. And talking.

My friend quickly runs through her personal update and then excitedly asks, “what have you been thinking about lately?”

I like that question, the way she puts it. Though, I have to ask myself, is it really interesting? The things I’ve been thinking about? I don’t think so. But I appreciate a friend who seems to be interested in my mindless meanderings; or maybe she sees the need a writer has to ruminate aloud in order for said writer to get back to the task of writing.

I open my mouth to wave away the answer, I haven’t been thinking of anything interesting, but the truth is … I suppose I have been thinking about how 

writting has been difficult lately 

inspiration has been difficult lately

but I’ve been wandering past dusty stairs; staring into the distance; listening to the swirl of steam rise up from my coffee cup; smelling the fog as it lifts …

because the writing is still being done. Even if it’s not put in Times New Roman or pink ink on a blue lined page.   

Moments of introspection still come as I wipe the dust from the back of hidden shelves; philosophize around (near/about) age to my moisturizers; and spiritually stretch like silly putty.

I’ve been thinking my bones are in need of silence – my congestion is coughing against my ribs and straining my muscles. 

I heard this past week, a comparison of our internal selves – our souls, our beings, our spirits –  likened to a “vast wilderness”. But, lately, the vastness is contaminated by so much noise. I’ve been thinking I need to go into the woods – deliberately. Pointedly. Resolutely.

Into the vast woods to deliberate. Calculate. Permeate.

I’ve been thinking of the way, when I was a kid and bored at church, I’d grab my mom’s hand and study the lines, the way her manicured nails shone in the light, what the fluorescent glow would do to her freckles. 

I’m thinking about how in the end, a person’s life becomes a paragraph of words in an obituary that no one really ever reads.  And I’m thinking about a friend of the family who said he reads obituaries because every now and again someone publishes one that says. “I’m glad this person is dead. They were a mean son of a bitch.”

I’ve been thinking about Star Wars and how they are expanding and stretching the cannon and the gossamer shines in some areas, is lifeless in others.

I’ve been wondering when this much Star Wars detail seeped into my database?

I’m twisting quotes by artists into a strong rumble of roots: 

-even in the darkest times. Your art is a quiet rebellion, a refusal to let the world dim your light… -Amie McNee

-you were built for withstanding… -Yoshyhwh Ben Yisrael 

-what is in your hands is the ability to find joy and peace…. -Jessamyn Stanley

bone by bone, hair by hair, Wild Woman comes back. Through night dreams, through events half understood and half remembered… – Clarissa Pinkola Estés

I’ve been thinking about the four different shades of purple in the bouquet of flowers on my desk and what I’d name them. 

Mostly, I suppose, I’ve been thinking about what I should be writing.