She sat at table in open room and wait for the sun to rise. Coffee beside; book, journal, and pen before, she waited for inspiration—moment-burst of idea’s appearing. She would write it when it came which, through trial and time, she learned came most often with the sun; in daylight’s break in orb from out of earthen hide, flood or rays in strike and sight—illuminating.
The sun was not yet risen. She was still in the darkness, waiting.
He found her in her wait, in rest and place in pensive’s prepare.
“Do you know what you want to write?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she answered, “only that I do…”
She reached for her coffee, taking drink. It’s sweet and smooth of sugar and cream lightened its black and mellowed away the bitterness.
It warmed her in hold. It warmed lips and tongue, throat, chest, and stomach on in drink and body’s settle. To feel, that was something; not inspiration—but something.
The bookshelves were empty in the almost-finished room; no stories saved, displayed, ordered neatly away. They were only open space, like page before, in wait for the personal and defining.
That was what she wanted to write. That was what she wished to surround herself in fill of pages, life, and home—the personal and defining.
Desiring greatly to create, she overthought. Overthinking, nothing came.
She took another drink from her coffee then returned it to rest beside. Releasing hand moved next for pen and took it into hold. She twirled the pen amongst fingers of her stilled, unwriting hand as she waited for the sun.
“Why don’t you write what you think the world needs?” he spoke. “What does modern culture miss? What is absent and not received in short-worded posts, quick video and picture messages? What of thoughts, life, and spirit need further words and time to tell? What of your soul wants shared and shown?
What do you wish you knew of others, would encourage to outwardly offer in dare to share? How do you make connections? How do you feel them? In connection—affinity, love, and friendship—how do you cultivate, expand, and sustain?
What do you love?
What do you want more of in this world?” He wanted to learn all these and believed a greater audience would too.
“What of your soul wants shared and shown?” he asked again, sincere and wanting to know. “Write that…”
He smiled in his eyes, slight up-curl at corner of lips; gentleness in his countenance, encouraging of the spirit.
He left her then to quiet and room: to space and her private spirit.
Sun rose—inspiration, illumination—and she gave herself to page in the personal and defining.