Ragdale

I don’t remember ever being in such a quiet and peaceful place. The stillness is broken only by the occasional bird call or faintly passing car. The air is warm, but not hot. The sky is clear and blue and perfect. We pay reverence to the stillness – instinctively walking slowly and on tip toes so as not to disturb the magic.

If only the ripened trees could talk, and whisper out the words of former writers, poets and artists who have graced this space. Thousands of sparks of ideas have begun here. Whether those ideas and thoughts ever became a finished work of art is not the point. 

The creativity and life come in the process. That moment, that flash of genius – a word, a phrase or a plot line, a new character or direction. That is the journey. That is what makes this space hallowed ground.

The joy of writing comes in the mystery. In the discovery of what lies deep inside of me. I don’t truly know my thoughts until I write them down. And reading them back is like remembering an old friend.

Today I feel grateful for this stillness and this peace that gives me a chance to listen to those who have gone before me. And join them with my own piece of genius.