Friday morning, 2am, and a thunderous rain pounds on the roof of our bus. Flashes of lightning dash inside where we sleep, and, quickly following after, thunder splits my children’s dreams.
Friday morning, 2am, and Lucy wriggles her way into our bed with the two words we can never refute. “I’m scared,” she whispers, curling up under the quilt with her mother, right up against her stomach, as if wiggling her way back into the womb. Sammy isn’t far behind – he takes my place in the bed, and I am relegated to Lucy’s bunk (I actually love sleeping in those tiny bunks).
Friday morning, 2am, and I lay in the bunk, listening to the storm. Sometimes I worry about invisible things: that my writing will never reach the heights I dream for it; that I will hurt those closest to me with one bad decision; that I will reach a later age and want a redo on this choice I’ve made to live an adventurous life.
These are the thoughts that come in the middle of storms. The sentences in my brain are frantic, like the rain. The sentences in my brain are flavored by the lightning, punctuated by the thunder.
* * * * *
Friday morning, 11am, I sit in a coffee shop and write the stories about which I dream. I drink a mocha and I read the creativity of my friends and I think about how this crazy family of mine is in Tulsa, and next week we will be in Amarillo, and, the next, Pasadena.
Life is almost always good when I rest in the here. The now. The frightful days that circle in my mind during a late-night thunderstorm rarely see the light of reality. The cool mornings after storms give me hope, when the gray sky apologizes sheepishly for all the fuss it made the night before. I drink my coffee and am reminded that autumn will circle around again. Cool mornings will come after the summer, mornings that require quilts and sweaters.
The heat of summer will not last forever.
Hope will circle around again.