On Writing

I write. To release stress, I write. I leave the house, hide in a corner, or, case in point, I spend an evening downtown, bring my lap top and write. I forever visualize my scene in pictures and words; and often, I look down as if by aerial view. My experiences are often interpreted in writing and I am rarely without a journal. So, yesterday, I had the opportunity to take 24 hours of respite at Hotel Minneapolis. Walking in my downtown, I took in Mpls culture; the people, the shapes, sizes, the attitudes, and the dialogue; knowing all would find some placement in print.


Dinner:

Sitting outside at an Irish Pub, ordering my Amstel light and keeping my vision on the street people. Table to my side has twenty something girls who are asking the waiter how much each bottle of beer or glass of wine costs. When waiter leaves, one talks about her dad’s influence, another discusses college loans and another talks about her current internship. They are so fresh out of the water. I sip my beer and revel in the innocence.

Mom and daughter taking a moment to eat and talk. The 12 or so year old daughter is just adorable and even her, “Noooo, Mom, you wouldn’t” sounds cute. She is dressed up for her evening out with Mom. I am guessing a theater show is on the agenda after dinner.

I think of the young adults, embarking upon their evening out and reflect on my early years in Minnesota; newly married, rented house, barely an income to survive. We played a lot of cards, took naps, watched movies and rode our bikes around the lakes. Little did we know that we would eventually look back on the time with envy.

Last night, I stole a moment away from my present reality. A time to check in with myself to see what developed.

This morning, I sat in the Restaurant Max and had my morning buffet of sorted food. An older gentleman was behind me in line and we exchanged moderate pleasantries before returning to our seats. We sat across the room from the other and on my way out, I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, “Have a good day, Sir.” He replied, “Well, thank you for stopping and talking to me…say, can you sit for a second and join me for a cup of coffee?” Well, how could I refuse? For 20 minutes, the privilege was all mine. He is a writer, he is a widower of seven months and he was in town for his wife’s memorial service. They lived in San Antonio. I was lifted and wished I had sat with him sooner. But, he is now in my mind and heart and again, I write. I write about Dennis, the girls sitting next to me, my time, my reality, my existence.

I write......