Just Write

I wish I was in London. Or Paris, perhaps. In a town with cobbled walkways, colorful houses, petite coffeeshops that serve cinnamon buns hot and melting, with a coffee cup warming my hands. Perhaps a little fog, a little rain, people open their umbrellas, walking a little more quickly down the quiet streets, their black and brown overcoats billowing behind them in the wind. But it’s warm in the coffeeshop, with a book in front of me, a few customers making small talk with the kind baristas who spent their morning decorating the specials board. 

Or perhaps in a cottage by the sea in Ireland. A cliff, like you see in the movies, with overwhelming green grass, daisies, and a tumultuous ocean below on the rocks, moving with the flow. The wind is strong, chilling the air, but the walk through the forest brings clarity before I arrive home, a small house with a wooden gate, a flower garden in bloom, displaying every color imaginable. Chickens and goats in the backyard, spending their time in contentment with the butterflies. 

Oh, how I wish I was there. The fruit for the mind, the stories I could come up with if only I was there. But I am not there. I am here. So, instead I will have to find my stories within the last fall leaf dropping to the ground, within the morning sunrise, within the simplicity of the smiles I see, within the love of my family, within the strength of my friendships. Oh, how I love to be here.