The Dance, the Picture, the Story


Fairies Dancing in the MoonlightWords are a funny thing, especially those words that form into a picture, an idea, in our minds, even in our very heart.

There have been times I sat down in front of the computer (or with pen and paper) to compose, and nothing came forth. Times it seemed my whole life was one huge void, a vast and endless writer’s block.

Other times, often when busy in some other activity–cleaning or walking or showering–a concept comes to mind, and with it…words. The words form so fast and adhere together, weaving into a picture, a truth, an idea.

Friends and family have told me at times, you’re such a talented writer. My response is usually a simple “Thank you.” It’s a bit difficult to explain the whole truth. The words that just form and dance around my mind, like a ring of fairies on a midsummer’s night, until I put them on paper. But if I wait until morning, they have disappeared, off to some magical land…and I must simply wait until they return again. It is never the exact same dance though, the precise words and concept. But it is a gift, for no amount of concentrating, no length of time sitting and telling myself, “It’s time to write,” can bring forth the dance, can form the picture or tell the story.

It’s not all magic and sparkles. It does take effort to get it all on paper (or saved in a word doc.), mainly taking the time to complete a concept of which I have begun to write, stopping long enough to watch the dance from beginning to end and to weave it into a complete telling. I have countless “begun” writings and poems, all waiting for the day fancy takes over and I put an ending to the string of thoughts and tie a knot of consolidation. Some things just take time, like the journey each of us is on; we don’t see from beginning to end, and are not meant to.

That’s the fun of it.

Sometimes it comes to us like a choreographed dance, beautiful and fitting. Other times, it is a challenge, a fight, an uphill climb to make any sense of that thing called life.

But beyond all telling, and even beyond all understanding, there is that dance to which we are all called. It is a love story, its colors woven through the ages and tied with the golden strands of love. The choreography begun before the dawn of time, and the story will endure beyond the time that time shall be no more. There are no final words to the story, but this we do know.

It will be happily ever after.

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One comment on “The Dance, the Picture, the Story

  1. […] knew I couldn’t just push my way through the silence, because writing is an inspiration. If I were to write without that, it would be dry, uninspired words … nothing […]

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