I let my mind drift as I dosed off, waiting for the phone to ring. Quiet lights flickered outside my hotel window. Head back, legs crossed on a faux leather ottoman. Sleep was seeping in the edges of my interior vision, but I rested on the edge of sleep and wakefulness until you called.
The phone chimed and you were on the other end like a mystical beacon. What sorcery transports you (not even through wires) across air waves to my chair nubbed in mint green and chocolate brown? My friends are few and far between, but I am thankful that you are one of them, talking now about our mutual creative paralysis and the power of prayer to ground you (literally and metaphorically).
To be known. Is this not a basic longing too? To be known truthfully because you have shown your true colors and have been excepted for the Crayola multi-pack that you are. It reminds me of my favorite passage from the end of “How It Feels to Be Colored Me” by Zora Neale Hurston:
But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of miscellany propped against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red, and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a jumble of small things priceless and worthless. A first-water diamond, an empty spool, bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since crumbled away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two, still a little fragrant.
Our conversation was a proverbial pouring out of the bits and bobs in the brown bags of our selves, and I am thankful for these small miracles. I usually fall asleep before they arrive. I’ve been told to stay vigilant, yet too often I’m caught sleeping in the garden when I’ve been asked to pray.