CourageCreative writing need not be weird or absurd. It glistens. It shines from the very spirit that explains our existence. At times it crawls about, foraging for food, never owning a home, not secure in any way. It stands. It kneels. It lies down. It runs through the brain, the memory, and the very consciousness of the being called the writer.
Students of creative writing seek one thing: ex
One day, a dark cloud hid my soul from any light to see my spirit. I stood. I wondered. I took my car keys from my pocket. I drove to a park. I took a walk. Nothing on the walk could relieve my darkened, hidden soul. The walk took me to a bay, the bay led to a river. The vast expanse of flowing water took my mind upstream, not down. I knew I needed to move with the flow. I knew I wanted to move against it.
I found another bay. I knew it. I took the path to where the stagnate water rested. Lily pads awaited my glance. A single blossom float among the greens and browns in and of the water. The flower looked towards a grouping of trees. Those trees knew what I needed to be told. My body followed my spirit to the trees.
I rested my ear against one of the trees. Water runs up the trunks. I heard the pulse of the tree. I looked up and saw the path that led back up, away from this tiny grove of willow. My heart ached the way a shattered leg aches after the shock wears away. I saw myself walking, getting into my car and driving. My ear pressed hard against the tree.
I can't do it! I screamed at the tree with the top of my mind. No sound came from my mouth. A tear dripped from my chin, falling on the root by my shoe.
"I know what I must do." I said to the tree. "Thank you." My heart spoke those words, my mind still did not understand. I thought, 'who are you kidding?' I had no idea what to do. Still, I left the trees. I got into my car. I drove three miles.
I knocked on her door, the one door I had promised not to knock on, because she caused such anguish. I loved her as deep as the roots of cotton woods on the plains. Then she rejected our love. I did not want to knock on the very door that she answered that afternoon.
After the coffee filled my mouth, the first sip, I spoke. I spoke the words I never thought I would say, but knew deep down, that they had to be said.
"I forgive you." She stared, not shocked, but stunned. "I wonder, do you forgive me?"
"I guess, I do." She wasn't convincing, for she didn't know if I had done anything to forgive. I did know that in any relationship there's always need for forgiveness, even if the offense cannot be named.
I later found out, my friend of thirty years told me, my therapist of two months told me, the very thing I did not tell myself. It took courage to talk to the trees. It took courage to leave the upstream and find the flow of forgiveness. It takes courage for the writer to pen words that pierce the very soul from which they arise.