Dieu et moi faisons de la musique…

The flowering opaque vases became smaller as they approached the wide open window—smaller merely because the window was on the opposite side of the room farthest from me. Even so, the vases were more like a selection of little jars, differing in shape and size. The flowers too, bunching at their rims, sat nestled in their own array: flecks of purple pansies, and then sorts of other wild sprays—pink, yellow, white, and magenta. Their tables each reflected it’s own light from the gaping hole in the far wall. For it was a bit unlike a window in its hugeness and for the mere fact that a garage door would hide it in transparent glass.

But through it wafted the chilly summer breeze: a foreign thing for mid-July. The grey landscape shifted and swayed with its weight. And even the flowers in their little glass vases would feel it gently. Signs marked with beverage choices and food selection swung lightly at the air’s wake. And then I sat simply with the roundness of table extending beyond either side of me. An unattended game of Scrabble accompanied me in its box at my right along with a watered-down bit of latte chilling at the bottom of its plastic cup. Ads lied abandoned near the edge of the table, an Inlander blanketed the Scrabble box and an empty muffin paper lingered with its crummy contents. I gnawed here and there at my ever-receding nails.

And then rain spotted the asphalt beyond the open wall. Its scent overtook the breeze and overwhelmed the surroundings. The flowers would’ve welcomed the moisture so familiar if not for the room’s shelter. And then I supped on diluted coffee and continued to chew on my pathetic nails. The world outside sat in its haze and I gave in to it. But something about the lackadaisical weather seemed restful and fresh like the scent of its rain. And that is what wooed me to simply sit and write. In the haze of such days it seems as though the haze of sleep where dreams are built and fashioned to source a kind of inspiration. But the inspiration always seems fleeting—stuck only in those moments and merely reflected upon. Much like the short-lived sprinkle of the rain outside the big window are those rising emotions, euphoric with a special sort of hope.

These days will find me ever so often. And I can only submit to the thoughtfulness and study within them. Their objectiveness arouses a studious girl sleeping inside. She comes out to play with the scents and smells of rain and dance underneath the overcast skies. But deep within me she lies nestled in sleep awaiting these days and moments where the coffee is good, outside it’s cold and rainy, and the atmosphere inside abides calmly with welcome to her games of thought and fancy. This is what charms me to write in coffee shops, to sit for hours reading, writing, reflecting. And it’s God who envelops these moments and minutes, sometimes hours that pass. I can’t seem to escape the slight ecstasy and intoxication. He knows me too well. So then I go on to write things lyrical in hopes of something meaningful to arise from the pictures and thoughts.

So it is. And here am I. And here God is.