Sometimes, I hate being tall. I just want to be the cute, short one that everyone gravitates to, or I just want to be small and short enough to be able to walk through a crowded city without being noticed by those barging by, talking on their cell phones or hailing a cab.
I'm not freakishly tall, I'm just tall enough that I am seen even when I don't want to be.
Yet, my dream, and it will come true, is to live in the busiest hustle-bustle city of them all: New York City. I love the upbeat, never sleeping atmosphere of the Big Apple!
But, when I'm up super late (*cough*3:15 AM*cough*) and am taking the dog out way past what I should be, I get to look at something almost equally as beautiful:
I love that, right after a huge thunderstorm, I can go stand on the sidewalk and be sheltered from nothing. I can feel the left-over rain drops run from the leaves to my shoulders. I can reach up and touch the temporarily fragile branches while still in a state of catastrophe.
I can look up and not see a single star or a single part of the night sky. All I see are leaves. Green Mother Earth at it's best. I'm the smallest thing in the world then.
This makes me wonder if I am in fact a small-town gal from a big city that has spent a good part of her life in places she never called "home". They were always "house". They'll always be "house". But, I like that I can relax at this house by sitting on our porch swing under these big, beautiful trees, and not see a thing but my dreams and my future.
I think I will miss this just a tiny bit. Not a lot though, just a tiny bit.
I haven't written in a few days. But, when I was standing out there in the nice cool 70 degree whether at three o'clock in the morning, I knew exactly what to write about.
Sitting here, writing about a tree by candle light, I feel like I should be writing the next great romance novel or a poem to go down in history. But, I am perfectly happy writing about the tree in my front yard.
I can look up and not see a single star or a single part of the night sky. All I see are leaves. Green Mother Earth at it's best. I'm the smallest thing in the world then.
This makes me wonder if I am in fact a small-town gal from a big city that has spent a good part of her life in places she never called "home". They were always "house". They'll always be "house". But, I like that I can relax at this house by sitting on our porch swing under these big, beautiful trees, and not see a thing but my dreams and my future.
I think I will miss this just a tiny bit. Not a lot though, just a tiny bit.
I haven't written in a few days. But, when I was standing out there in the nice cool 70 degree whether at three o'clock in the morning, I knew exactly what to write about.
Sitting here, writing about a tree by candle light, I feel like I should be writing the next great romance novel or a poem to go down in history. But, I am perfectly happy writing about the tree in my front yard.
Tomorrow, I'll go running on the trail behind my neighborhood. The ground will be soggy and maybe a little muddy, taking it's sweet time drying up after the downpour of rain, thunder, and lightening we had tonight, but that is okay. It will be peaceful. ;Jen
1 Comments:
I suspect that many of the "great" authors never imagined that their works would be passed on and treasured for generations. They wrote about their dreams and whatever moved them.
When people *try* to be "great" writers they often fail. There is.. a purity that gets lost when people write for fame.
Write for yourself, and you cannot fail.
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