Power

There are times I feel powerful. Like when I lift and carry forty pounds of sleeping daughter up our long flight of stairs. When I drive with aggressive confidence through six lanes of rush-hour traffic. Or when I've opportunity to say the right thing, offer a warm hug, lift a soul up.

But mostly, it's when I write.

It might start out a small feeling, just a hint needing cultivation, as the first threads of creativity take hold. And then, as my idea forms, the words gather and a sense of efficacy latches on, wanting more. It builds. And later, after I've written, once I've shared and people have read, absorbed, related, when they've told me they connected, laughed, enjoyed...

There it is: POWER.


When do you feel powerful?

Thank God for the Yogurt Cup

Sometimes, you know, stuff happens. Sometimes, if you're lucky, that stuff makes you giggle madly. Just before you realize it makes good fodder for fiction.

Allow me to set the scene:

Annual church float trip. Our group has descended upon the campground, covered it with tents. We've visited, eaten and had campfire, and my family, because bedtime approacheth, have walked the hill to the public restroom, ensuring no need for mid-night traipses to the potty.

We four have settled among pillows and atop semi-cushy blankets. We listen to the whir of the electric fan my husband has rigged to a car battery, think dreamy thoughts. Sleep takes first one, and the next, another, me.

But soon (all-too-soon) I am awakened.

I try to ignore it, the reason I've come to. Because it's not that bad. Because really, could I tippy-toe to the tent flap over three mounded and peaceful bodies? Could I unzip it soundlessly, climb out, traverse the rocky, tree root-laden ground with my clumsy nature and ridiculous nearsighted eyes? It's got to be, what, one in the morning? It's too dark, it's too late, it's too much an inconvenience.

Oh, but no. Something has to be done. Because I really have to piddle.

I try to coax my bladder into surrender, just until morning. Please. But it doesn't work, and I have to brainstorm. There's got to be something I can do from within the comforts of our tent. Now.

My thoughts slam into memory of the empty yogurt cup my daughter carried around early in the day. The yogurt cup I tossed in my bag, the one within my reach, telling myself it could come in handy for camping. For some purpose.

Thank God for the yogurt cup.

And so, well, you know. In the corner of the tent, right next to a handy slot that opens to outside.

Fill. Dump. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

In retrospect, it may have been easier to walk the hill.

I lie back, settling in once again. And I giggle madly.

That's good fodder.

All It Takes

I have a friend who dabbles in writing. She has pondered plots and researched the industry; she has studied others' writing and desires to pen something amazing, maybe a novel. I've seen some of her stuff, and I believe she has untapped talent.

Still, she's considered what it takes, beyond vision and creativity.

Markets are often overwhelming, and competition can be devastating. Publication is rare, given the odds, every little step. All this means determination and discipline are necessary. Time and patience are required. And required some more. Many know the list continues.

She recently decided she's not ready to commit. Not yet, anyway, and I admire her respectful withdrawal from the race.

I also feel buoyed by it. I feel encouraged, in fact, because I realize how deep-rooted my want is. I realize that I want success, no matter the commitment. And I'm willing.

I commit.

Do you?