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Previous Challenge Entry (Level 1 – Beginner)
Topic: Writing (01/11/07)

TITLE: The Words are Spirit
By Rick Humphreys
01/13/07


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The Words are Spirit

The keyboard lies dormant beneath me, fingertips caressing but not striking. The curser blinks incessantly, annoyingly, waiting to be allowed to move. It is the blinking red light that signals that forward progress has stopped, and I sit frozen staring at it. A warm breeze blows through the screen of the open window, distracting, tempting. Sunny day, blue skies, a lone bird calls somewhere and listens for an answer but there is none. It calls again; itís musical twilling heard by none except for me.
Yea, itís lonely this writing business. Then there are the constant distractions, things that have to be done, responsibilities met. My heart longs for a mountaintop cabin and the time to create all the worlds that I have ever dreamed about. There I would be finally be free to let my imagination soar and with my hands form the lives that beg to tell their stories.
The TV blares, the wife calls and I go, leaving the curser to blink by itself; my inspiration now effectively shattered.
The necessaries now done, I walk hands in pocket to the open door. The summer day beckons and I walk out unto the deck. My dog warming itself in the summer sun sees me coming and thumps its tail in greeting. I am just a belly scratcher to it and a body that delivers food. But I look into his brown eyes and see the adoring loyalty in their depths. That may be all I am to him but he loves for it.
I take a seat and my dog rolls on his back and begs for another belly scratch. I scratch first with one hand and then switch to the other hand. These belly scratches take a while. Itís good therapy for the dog and myself. The dogís eyes close in blissful pleasure and my mind wanders searching for that place from whence inspiration comes.
Stillness. The mysterious stillness of some afternoons that comes so unexpected. Perhaps noise needs to rest too, to regain its strength for its next onslaught.
A voice. I turn my head sharply to see who uttered speech. No one there. Words breathed with the wind and its freshness lingers. Words plainly heard not by the ear but still understood, resonating in the very marrow of my bones.
ďWords create lifeĒ. I smile at the words and praise my Maker and Keeper of my soul. My Helper has come to my aid again. I rise leaving my dog on its back, paws in the air and return to my tiny office, but revived with new inspiration.


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This article has been read 354 times
Member Comments
Member Date
Maryolyn Payne01/19/07
Well expressed. We all have been there at some time. If the inspiration doesn't come from the Lord then it is not the right path- great point. Thanks for sharing.
Jan Ackerson 01/20/07
I love your little details--the twilling bird, the begging dog. Takes this essay several notches higher than the typical "first person" writing. Great job!
Sara Harricharan 01/23/07
I liked the feel of this! Very down-to-earth sort of, I liked the descriptions, especially the ending-great job!