“You have a remarkable story. Isn’t it time you tell it?”—Leslie Leyland Fields
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He saw the message written to sky over scene of lake, mountain, and clouds—repetition of a message day before appeared over sign and scene of same.
“Why shouldn’t it be the year you write your story?” he asked.
She laughed, easy and dismissive, but slightly off that suggested sign of a something-strike.
They sat at the island, in pillar of light in stream through front door’s windowed frame.
“And what story is that? What would I write?” she countered.
“I don’t know, but you do. You know it’s there, that it’s been there a while—waiting and patient for you to give it time. Is it still a low-thought feeling, or are you in the starting and shaping of see—it becoming more clear and true?”
She didn’t answer. She only listened, examined, working her thoughts over and through.
“Wouldn’t you like to see what it could be?” he asked, “To make it more than a dream?
I know the feeling. I have them too—stories holed up and away waiting to be written. Why shouldn’t we make them—help each other in their find and tell? We could share and shape, help in create, and when ready gift of ourselves in open to world, or in secret and nom de plumes only we would ever know.
I don’t care what your story is. I don’t care what it says and tells. I care that it’s yours and believe others will too.
Why not make this the year of your story?” he asked encouragingly and in invitation to adventure and discovery through creation.
“It’s a little terrifying,” she spoke.
He understood.
“Maybe that’s part of it too: to do something that terrifies, to achieve and overcome and create and gift away so that we’ll never doubt or wonder if we could’ve—because we did.”
“Maybe it is…” she spoke. She smiled and blushed, meekened in expression as she stroked and combed with fingers hold of hair above her ear.
She was beautiful in her essence.
“It was just a thought,” he spoke encouragingly and inviting still. “What more do you need than a sign written in the sky?”
She smiled and blushed, beautiful in both, as fingers kept in comb and run through hair in catch and hold above her ear. Her countenance and spirit glowed, merried in the musing.