I've spent a lot of time in this chair since it came to stay. It's been shifted to a better position for this photo, so you cannot see the window I love, my desk, my lap desk, or me, for that matter, but no matter. This paragraph is all about the chair that sets in the room where I write. This chair tracks the sun. Honest. Well, it tries. The sun's position influences the life that surrounds it. Anna had no idea when she sent it, that her crocheted gift wanted a chair to spread itself across. The pillow never imagined going to a home simply because it's lovely color would make its color-cousin pop. The chair never imagined it would become the place where letters would be written. It thought it'd be strictly for reading and musings. "One never knows, do one?" asked Fats Waller.
Letter pillows, right? A perfect cushion for the small of one's back. I needed one. I bought two in case the one left behind pined for its mate. Yes, I remembered that I'm allergic to feathers, but thought they'd make great Christmas gifts. Too bad I shoved the bag to the back of the closet, as in out-of-sight-out-of-mind, and out of JC's sight and ridicule. Ha! They've been in the closet since summer. I should clean my closet more often.
Mail has been written. Bits and pieces go out with very little to justify the price of postage. Forced letters are never good letters, but I do try. This is nothing new. Thumbing through completed journals offered much insight. My withdrawal follows a cyclic pattern. I know this. I just keep forgetting. And, no news is good news. Along with, "Me owing you a letter is almost as good as being owed a refund." Yet, I do write on.
I even write to myself about why I can't seem to write letters, or notes, or postcards, or ribbons in the sky.
I press flowers between sheets of waxed paper. And still I write.
And, I write.
Front and back, like I live in Anahuac!
Year out, year in?
Yep, I write.
I embellish the outside like mad, to compensate for what's lacking inside, but I write on.
I write on and on 'til the break of dawn. At least once or twice a month, when insomnia stops by for a catch-up.
I write on through a day's waning calm. My inspiration? Sunlight that breaks against my little crystal charm, and hits my jaded eye: an inkwell with a gold quill pen that never runs out of magic.
Oh! And I read a little before I write on some more.
From the chair in the room where I write, I wish you happy writing!