I stand amongst the changing hues of avocado, crimson, pumpkin, and mustard.
I watch the colors mingle as they tango across tree branches and stretch into an azure sky.
The image changes with the breeze and the appearance of two bright white clouds rising above the distant mountain.
Sun dapples fragments of soapstone strewn along the ocher road.
A gust of wind rattles off a song through the woods while my feet shuffle another melody through the fallen leaves.
As I feel the gust whip beneath my sweater, I watch the limbs bend a path. I wonder where I’ll end up if I choose to follow. I question if I have what it takes to bend a path rather than following one.
I stop and close my eyes. I smile at the thought of the wind’s wildness, its reckless abandon…the pure freedom to travel its choice of speed and direction.
I envy its power, but only for a moment. Oh how I’ve wanted my writing to be as free and wild as the wind… I realize I do have that same power. Yes, I do.
I think about the ability to move as quickly or slowly as desired without expectations or demands. I understand I am the one who places pressure upon me.
I choose to write like the wind. I will set the pace and follow my heart. I refuse to feel guilty about what I do or don’t write. Nor will I criticize my every word; I’ll just write like the wind.
The leaves lift into the air and shimmer in the sunlight. And for a moment, I am the wind. Swoosh!