Outside, frost covered the waking world, browns made silver, greens the same, and for a time there was only the gleam and not the under depression, drab, of winter’s touch.
Light carried into room, glimmer and gleam the same and window-framed ray that reached in band between them.
“What’s wrong?” Annie asked, reading and knowing his energy, like world outside, a momentary shine in façade of under-despondency.
He laid the book in hands down onto his lap, page left opened and marked over thigh as he looked at the band of light and then to her beyond ray’s transparent wall.
“I’m struggling to find a book that interests me,” he spoke, something small but affected him to same.
“Maybe, the story you’re searching for isn’t in a book. Maybe that’s why you’re restless. You know the story, and you know it’s on you to write it—if anyone ever will. Maybe it’s time to stop with the distractions, someone else’s stories, and get to the work you know that you should do—write the one you know is in you, the one that’s there right now.
You’ve received the inspiration. You know what it contains. You began, but then you balked…why…”
Annie turned in her seat, gazing too at the source of division that shone bright and striking in the space between.
“I don’t think you’ll find the story somewhere else,” Annie spoke more. “It’s time for the harder work. Don’t hide from it, deny what you already know and believe. Write it.
If you need to pray about it, do; but when an answer speaks: don’t deny that you have heard and that its message is received.”
Annie rose from rest and chair, long and lithe in morning spirit, entering into and transversing wall and division of light, luminous in glow and touch to skin and hair and morning gown of white. Through light and space between, she moved then stood, leaning in and near to him. She kissed him softly on the face, on strong point of cheek and then, nearer to mouth, on softer skin beneath.
Next, she spoke with eyes and then with words. “There’ a story you’re meant to tell,” eyes and words both strong and gentle. “Tell it.”
After, she moved from place before him to behind as he heard her steps and then the sound of coffee moved, poured, and steps again over hardwood then muted upon rug. She returned to her seat, smiling on James through division of the light.
It was a gaze of comfort, ease, affirmation, and affection that shines from one onto another—without knowing—when spirit believes and trusts completely in faith the good and purpose in another. Believing in the other, their own shines forth.
Light changed, silver warming into amber-gold, angle moved and lighting different into room. At fall and focal point, light settled on table in center of the room, a journal and pen and different book beside.
James rose, made for coffee as had Annie, and poured, took place where words and light directed.
It was a book with many markings: folded page ends, bracketed lines, and slips of paper holding place of different sub-books, letters, wisdoms, and inspirations. He opened to one at random and read:
“Blessed is the man that findeth wisdom…She is more precious than all riches: and all the things that are desired, are not to be compared with her. Length of day is in her right hand, and in her left hand riches and glory. Her ways are beautiful ways, and all her paths are peaceable. She is a tree of life to them that lay hold on her: and he that shall retain her is blessed…My son, let not these things depart from thy eyes: keep the law and counsel: and there shall be life to thy soul, and grace to thy mouth.”[i]
He viewed her then, smiling still through the fall and wall of light.
He saw. He knew. He believed, no longer denying.
Wisdom was a woman, and she was there—radiant—through veil of amber-gold.
Book laid open, and too, blank journal page beside. Moved, he wrote returning to the vein and story-wealth that showed telling through the veil.
[i] Proverbs 3:13, 15-21