As I said earlier in the week, I read a short passage of The Poisonwood Bible before going to sleep and it’s working wonders. Here’s another bit of writing that’s come from my dreams and I scribbled down in the wee hours of the morning while half asleep:
“Maybe she’ll grow up to be like us. But I hope she’s braver and more courageous than that; I want her to grow up to be herself.”
The storm danced toward the sunny shore, consuming it, not out of will but because it was called to do it. I just didn’t know by whom. A thousand strands of light struck from cloud to ground. It was artful in its destruction, if it’s possible to do something so terrible with grace. It was strange to face the sea and the sun, and then turn around and see the advancing rage of the darkest swirling clouds.
I did my best to find the notes of subtlety and press play.