When I lived in Harrisburg, I bought a table—a perfect little brown one with two little drawers in it. I perched it by the window in my room overlooking our creek. The creek is not really visible from my seated vantage point, but I enjoy the green trees in the woods along it. A bit of golden rod is trying to peek up from the ground several feet below my window, so a splash of yellow interrupts the endless green intertwined with brown. That is what I see when my gaze wanders as I ponder what to write next.
The window is the next closest thing in my line of vision. A glass butterfly dangles in the window. It’s not quite a sun-catcher, because the sun has almost no opportunity until 4 pm or later. On the windowsill is an ivory colored pot holding a fern. This angel plant is nearly bursting from its confines, spilling over the pot in all directions. My gaze rests on the fern most often, taking in the gentle green more than the intricate leaves.
But, sometimes, I need a little more encouragement than a splash of green. The left portion of the window serves as an easel to display a couple inspirational paintings on card stock. The one on display depends on my mood.
The top one says, “Some things don’t make sense. That’s Life.” This one is particularly helpful when I am processing a particularly difficult part of my book, as a good reminder.
“It starts somewhere” reminds me that progress and everything in life has a starting point, so I shouldn’t begrudge the beginning. Other days it is an exclamatory statement encouraging me to sit down again to write.
The third one gives me a serge of hope: “It ebbs and flows.” Whatever it is: the progress of writing, the understanding of what to put on the page, the enthusiasm to continue, or the perseverance to keep going. If I’m having a particularly hard day, it reminds me that slow days are a part of life.
The last one simply says “Be sunny.” The cheerful yellow contrasts the black lettering serving as a jolt of awareness and motivation to stay on the bright side.
When work is simply too hard, I turn to the wall and take in a quote by Anne Frank, “Paper is patient...” On the bottom I finish the quote in my own words, “...words will come.”
Some days my work is easy, and the ferns and amateur paintings remain in my peripheral, but other days the props give me the gentle boost I need. Then, there are the days when I must remind myself to be patient, because it’s just going to be hard. I think the rest of life plays out in a similar fashion.
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