So many days have gone by and I haven't written a single sentence. I've worked in public relations, education, banking, retail, development, and more, but I've shied away from jumping into writing with both feet. Tonight when I got off the Q train in Queens, I knew something had shifted. I watched the way the woman carried a very heavy bag in front of me. I felt the air on my face at the open platform. I saw the black, dirty and dark stairs of the station; how one man skipped down them, and I wondered how he did it without falling?
Tonight two boys from a private high school got on the train, their navy blue jackets smug against their pelting red ties. But it was the click of their shoes that I noticed. The way they kept moving to side to side of the car; their khakis wrinkled at the back of their knees; the red, gripping fingers of one of the boys on the rail next to my face.
It is time to write, my being says to me. We've been patient long enough with your fears, insecurities, laziness, and distractions. Now, you write. Now, you take it seriously, and pay some attention. Now, you breathe a different air; taste a different texture; drink a different elixir; hear a different tune; see a different vision. Now, you give it your all.
So I'm 55. The same number as my birth year. I've been fascinated with 55 for years now, and now I know why. This year I strike. No more time. Nothing else to do, but this. I've got some living to get on with and this first day of it, now 51 minutes in, smells sweet.
Happy Birthday to me.
Dedicated to Nancy Lee Powell-Hastings
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