looking-up.jpg 

I open the car door to the realization that things have changed overnight.

The polar wind bites my ankles and rips its way up my skirt.  Once inside the coffee shop, it fights me to keep the door open.  I dig in my heels, lodge my fingers under the door’s push bar, and pull with all my might.   Then the resistance is abruptly gone and I fall ass backward into the foyer.

Minutes later, settled in with my coffee and composition book, I feel another customer blow in and blow off the fate of the door.  With the door by the throat, the wind howls triumphant.  I jump out of my seat and shut it up — eager to apply my recent experience.

I sit back down and another customer flies through the door letting the wind slam it back on its hinges.  The conditions of this morning’s arrangements made clear, I am free to make a choice:

Keep getting up myself — leave — or stay put and hope someone else gets up the next time the bitter wind invites itself in.

If I keep getting up, I won’t get my pages written.  If I leave, I won’t get my pages written.  And if I stay put and nobody moves, I get cold.

I decide to stay put.  Everyone stays put.  We shiver for awhile, the wind loses interest and the door swings shut.

I write three pages. 

The parable of the woman, the wind and the swinging door bringing the shivering gift of surrender into my life this morning. 

My art flows from the patterns & paths of my lived experience which ⏤ like yours ⏤ are at once deeply personal and entirely universal.

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