A Bit of Gold

A bit of gold caught my attention. How could it be? How could it be the one thing to almost lose a second time?

A Bit of Gold
 2019 Linnea Heaney

About a year and a half before, I had found a small chain on the floor of a closet. It was on my last circle through the empty house, looking for anything missed.

This time, the chain appeared on the floor of a closet--again. But, in my brand-new home, a house halfway across the country, with boxes everywhere, and I spot the same small chain, nestled in the crack of a wood floor.

My breathing stopped. How could . . . coincidence doesn't seem to be the right word. Out of all the thousands of belongings moved time and again over the past months of change and temporary homes . . . how is the same gold chain lying on the floor, forgotten, again?

Reflecting on the journey--the positive, the sadness, the unfortunate, and the overwhelming stress of this relocation, my days felt uneasy. Too many changes and demands eroded my mostly centered life. Writing everyday seemed a distant goal. But, who am I, without writing, without some art? How do I find me?

Placing the gold chain on my bedroom window sill, I ponder the meaning of it resurfacing twice.

Months and months go by as life feels like a flood of challenges that weren't supposed to happen. Three years disappear. Change happens. And everyone is needing to find a way back to a new place.

Is my bit of gold more about finally understanding that every life phase is filled with unexpected events? About finding resiliency, not of moving to the perfect place where all will be wonderful. Months of time ticking by as I find my way over speed bumps with walks into nature, with meditation, with watercolor beginnings, and with new writing friends.

Writing is about finding connections in the pieces of life. Discovering yourself. Seeing stories. The golden glimmer on the window sill reminds me to continue. Holding on to a bit of gold is my reminder to breathe, to be in the moment, to write.

WIP: a work-in-progress

I wrote a draft of a new story this year. The central concept is resiliency. It is a word in short supply for children at the beginning of being. The pandemic has effected age groups in very different ways. I hear the children. I feel the loss.

I listen to Madeleine L'Engle--"You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children."

These are the bread crumbs of life I am following back to home.

More Than Another Year

The past year, one most never saw coming, even as a possibility, is now more or less gone. The starting and stopping as unique as the number of people on earth. We learned feelings that are incongruous with life before. In finding life after, I'm lining up my feelings with my creative process to the work of writing. I used to find flow, the somewhat mysterious creative mindset where thoughts focused and tumbled along in stories revealing connections, rather easily. All seems to need a reinvention.

Walking in nature is beginning to return to a normal feeling, and part of my process. Not a stress-filled endeavor into places that were once safe, but in the past year bordered on freakishly terrifying trips into the twilight zone. It turns out that safety is key to fostering creativity. Being safe allows the mind to be free to find thoughts that might be molded into story. Safety is in transition. New stories are about internalizing resiliency.