I used to worry in the darkness about what might happen, the what-ifs of the non-existent future. It never occurred to me that the worries were pointless, that nothing I could turn over in my mind like a towel folded to go into the closet would make any difference for the day to follow or the one after that.

The worry filled the silence and helped me avoid recognition of the empty hours in which I sat. I filled my days with people and noises, but not meaning, not purpose, not focus. This was a long time ago and yes, I still ponder the moments and the meanings. But far less and far more quickly.

When I walk beneath the pine, I stop to savor the scent. I listen to the music from my iPod without measuring the words.

Last night, the moon was full from my window, the air milky cool. I lay in my bed a long time, hugging the pillow and imbibing the silence. It was a long, lean night and I almost did not want to climb from my bed this morning except that my eyes were alight and my ideas like a waterfall.

Sometime in the midst of it all, I realized that I had missed the point so many times. Making love is the path to merging with a true love; I never realized that before now. The highest form of utter connection, of interweaving souls and spirits.

My vision was obscured for decades, my path cluttered by fallen pine cones.

I am balancing easily, like a plane lifting off. The silence is blue and soothing, water on the horizon. The seas are calm, a lover’s hand waving me closer.

It’s good. It’s all good.

Connect with Lynne

Register for The Writers Community