Where My Soul Calls Home–clicking heels, time-and-space travel, and brainstorming meetings with not-so-strangers. (Writing 101 Day 2)

Writing 101 Day 2
Today’s assignment begins with a question: “If you could zoom through space in the speed of light, what place would you go to right now?
The assignment? Write about this place. The twist? “Organize your post around the description of a setting.”


I close my eyes and click my proverbial heels.

I am transported through space and time to a place that is limited by neither.

I find myself upon a shore, sinking bare feet into sand while waves wash upon them. The sun is just starting to set over the oaks behind me. You walk toward me.

You and I, we make our way up the winding, narrow, boarded path to the cozy cottage that sits upon the hill, tucked behind trees whose branches make just enough space to view the shore through the bay window, the one with the bench seat littered with brightly colored pillows.

You and I, we sit in that cozy living room sipping tea. Maybe you prefer coffee. Or something cold. But I wrap my hands around ceramic and sip while you do the same with your drink of choice. We’ll sit across from one another, I with my feet curled up beneath me on the beige love seat, enveloped by more plush, oversized pillows. I’ll set my tea down on the vintage, light blue, three-legged end table next to me and hug one of those pillows, set my chin upon it. You’ll sit in the oversized chair opposite me. Maybe put your feet up on the ottoman, and maybe you set your forearms on your legs and lean forward. Books are scattered on the coffee table constructed of old pallets sitting between us, and line floor-to-ceiling shelves that enclose us in this room small enough to feel safe without being confining. But not even they could catch the attention of a bibliophile such as myself, because you and I, our eyes are locked on one another.

You and I, we have all the time in the world—because time doesn’t exist here. We’ve not lost a minute of our lifetime sitting here for what feels like hours to our time-confined bodies. We don’t look down at wrists wrapped with a banded face that tell us we’re slaves to its ticking hands: it’s time go to work, time to go to bed, time to go on to do more important things. This, you and me, right now, this is what matters.

Maybe you laugh. Maybe you cry. I likely do both. We speak, and we listen. Gold in worden form pours out from our lips and floats through the air, deposits into ears and brains, and really, hearts. We’re the rich ones. We know we’ve found what’s valuable here. We exchange stories, share dreams and fears. But I try to mostly listen, and then tell you that I understand. I understand your heart dreams big and yearns for bigger things. And that fear threatens to hold you back from those things. Then I tell you, “You can do this.” I put that pillow down and we both stand up. I walk toward you and reach my arms around your neck. We embrace. I whisper it again. “You can do this. I know you can.”

We’re ready now. We’re ready to leave this place, to return to a world where time rules. But we know. We know that even in a world where the clock tells us when to eat, when to sleep, when to work, we can carve holes into the hours that make up days to live outside of ourselves. To fulfill the dreams that were planted in our hearts, dreams to take the way we’re made and bring it to the world in a way that makes a difference. I write. Maybe you paint, and maybe you sing. Maybe you build houses, and maybe you teach. But we both know we needed this, and we’re ready to return to time. I walk with you out the screen door, into twilight, back down that path, back to the shore, and wave goodbye as waves approach my toes. I stand awhile on my own to take one last drink of this place, with its fragrant sea spray and emerging stars.

But I always come back here. This is the place I go when I’m aching for connection and difference-making. This is the place tucked into the location of my mind that hungers for more, that knows it’s made for more than thinking small and only about me. This is the place I go to when I need to be inspired, when I need to rekindle the fire that fuels the forward motion, the growing and seeking and learning I have so much more to learn still. This is the place I go, because sitting with strangers like we are kindred spirits reminds me that we are all unique. We all have been written different stories. But the common strand that runs through each of them is that we all must overcome adversity. Jesus promised His followers they’d have trouble, but to take heart. I think it’s clear this world is full of trouble, for all of us. And the part of our stories we get to write is how we tackle the trouble. Do we not tackle it at all? Do we lay down and let it wash over us, let it whisk us away to drown in a swelling sea? Or do we build a boat to ride upon it, above it? This is what inspires. This is the stuff of meetings with strangers in a cozy seashore cottage, who really aren’t strangers at all, because we all have boats to build to really live. When you sit and tell me how you’ve constructed boats in the past, this is how I know: You can do this. You’ve done it before, and now it’s a different shore with different building materials, but they are there. You can do this. And if you can do this, I can, too. Oh, and when we both need to be reminded of that? That gray-blue cottage with the white trim and porch, the one with window boxes filled with pansies and alyssum, is just a heel-click away. I’ll meet you there, where you and I steal away from time to drink some tea and do some boat-building brainstorming.

Til then.