Premature spring and follow-frost burned the redbud’s bloom. Lilac-violet paled to gray, but in one week’s time, redbud boughs restored to hue as bloom dared to show again.
He looked upon its colors beyond window in morning light. No words or story came, and he was sad that it was so.
He could tell when a story ran its course and had arrived at point of end, and when it did, as he had learned, it was best to let alone with grace and gratitude for the time and pages that it was.
Stories often lived and seemed, to him, as relationships of the mind. Few lived and lasted all of life, but each were friend and blessing of company for a time.
He chose to remember the writing that way, like the friends with whom he once was close but over time and life had drawn away. It was a natural course and way, and he’d learned gratitude at ending was better than forced sustaining in effort for a bond that no longer was.
Then, like friends, there were stories too that returned in cycle of life and time—natural, good, and welcomed when circumstance or spirit made close and right again.
Story-theme, known for years, he knew was at its close.
He let the story lie, grateful for the dreams and pages it had filled.
He waited for the next.
Open-hearted, open spirit, inspiration was all around: waiting, present, wanting to be found by open heart that sees.