I've taken to hiding in coffeeshops and corners. Writing has been so difficult for me lately, I can't seem to dig out the performance piece in my creative expression, and so my goal lately has been to find an unknown space and let the writing seep out of me. And if it doesn't, not a problem, I'll have at the very least enjoyed a good cup of coffee and an hour of people watching. Last night I was sitting watching different customers come in, and I was overwhelmed by how many different stories people must have. And this is what I thought...
We’re all just made up of moments. A myriad of a million moments that turn into memories and we hold them in our hearts until they become markers of who we are. And in these moments of being and breathing, of heavy shoulders and wistful sighs, of sharp tongues and empty hands, of soft lips and full hearts – in all of these we are so very much alive.
And God forbid we forget. God forbid we forget that our hearts are beating and feeling and thumping and pounding in our chests. Because we are alive, we are abundantly alive. And when we forget that we have been given all of these moments, we forget that others have been given them too. We forget that the girl serving our coffee is also alive, and her heart is beating and thumping and feeling just like ours. Just like yours. Just like mine.
And when we think of it like that, there’s no room for harsh words or empty promises. Because although we’ve already had a million moments we only have so many more. And what a pity it would be if in our moments, our precious moments, we forgot we were alive and instead lived our moments out in lethargy or legalism or jealousy or vanity – and not love.
I think we have forgotten how to love. How beautiful it would be if we remembered. What if in all of our moments – in our breathing, touching, speaking, feeling – what if in our smiles and glances and handshakes and gestures we were able to communicate a multitude of warmth. What if in the myriad of a million moments my thumping heart could somehow communicate to your pounding one that even in this mess of brokenness there is beauty yet to be uncovered.That's all really. I still can't write without critique, because I read this again and find it too sentimental. I think all great writing is a healthy balance of sentiment and reality, and I find I am always on either extreme.