I’m sneaking up on writing in my book. I could be writing in it tonight, but my excuse — and maybe a good reason, too — is that it’s late. Time feels like a security guard waving you forward in a sardine-packed crowd of concertgoers. Keep it movin’, the handlebar-mustached YMCA music-video man says, his chest bumping into mine, pressing into my bubble.
I work too hard at writing. What am I actually saying when I say that? I run into the middle of two jump ropes, pick my feet up double-time, high-kneeing my way through double dutch. I dream of writing as a floating bubble — one where I’ve donned a tiara and a golden, sparkly wand, a lit star that act like headlights in the dark. I’d float there willingly, up and down and over, playing with the ease of the controls.
To come up with ideas, I work with unworkable ground. Dirt that’s clay — cracked, lacking substance, carbon, the basic building blocks needed to plant anything at all. It’s beyond frustrating, bordering on maddening. Where is the fertile soil? The broken-down orange peels and eggshells — the fruits of my labor?
I, like a heavy bladder on exam day, want to catch a strong gush midstream. The gush of ability. Of ease. Of encapsulating a moment that reaches beyond the page and touches lips to your ear. I want it to tingle down your neck and through your chest, to make you wiggle at your spine as you discharge the volt.
I want to be moved, and I want to move. I want you to read this on your couch, at your kitchen table, in the warmth of your bed — and I want us to fly places together. To a drum circle, legs crossed, none of us knowing a thing. We’re barefoot, daisy chains resting on our heads, just placed there by a long silver-haired man, his hair in two braids draped over his shoulders. He’s led these before. We trust him. And even though this is a little outside what we’d normally do with our day, that’s okay.
Then we’re off on the moon. Why not us? Millions of chalk-dust particles are at our feet as we step. The poof beneath us — the sensation of stepping in mud, but not. There’s a cushion there, and we can’t help but turn to see the grooves our prints make, catching each other’s brilliant faces at the height of discovery and awe.
That we’re doing it. These things. Exploring, adventuring, testing the bounds of what’s possible — that’s what I love about you. About us together. It’s all possible with us.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 