Sometimes when there is nothing to write, when there is no inspiration, all you can do is just write anyway. The words may be slow at first, like the soft trickle of a stream. But as your mind gets warmed up to the idea of writing, the words come faster and faster, like a cascade of water tumbling down, down, down. Writing is my solace. When the weight of life is so heavy that I just want to crumple and cry and give up, writing is the peace that lifts me up. Writing is the outlet for the imagination, and when there is no one to turn to, go to the paper and ink for comfort. Writing will never fail. At least, that's what I thought. But now... I'm not so sure.
This summer it's hot and heavy, the sun bearing down until there's no escape. There is no rain, and our plants withered like prunes, dried and forgotten in the dust. They were once beautiful, tall and proud. Flowers and trees and bushes, all unique and beautiful, all playing a role in helping us live. But one by one, they succumbed to the heat, stripping us of our resources.
The sun was merciless, and we soon grew very dehydrated. Our family was not poor. We lived a good life, growing crops and swimming in the streams and seeing the world as a great and wonderful adventure. And maybe it is. But all adventures have their highs and lows.
My whole family and I grew sick. My sweet baby sister was the first. The images of her parched lips and feverish skin still haunt me. But we stayed resilient. We kept trying.
But living things need food, water and sunlight. Although we had plenty of sun, there wasn't much of anything else. My older brother and sister were next.
It was very hard for me and my parents, especially my poor Mama. She was so distraught, she gave up. She lay on her mat and slowly drifted from our grasp.
I think there are stages of grief, and I'm trying to cope the best I can. I don't know how I lived so long, and my Father didn't either; he passed away the next day.
Alone and utterly downcast, I sat next to him and wept. It's just not fair that my whole family should die and I should be able to live. What have I done? I just don't deserve it.
But I didn't start writing to mourn. I'm writing because... Well, I don't even know now. But what I do know is that the rain will come. And it will be amazing. The cool breeze will brush against my skin and I will feel whole again... I hope. Tired of moping and crying, I decide to go outside. The sun is blistering and there's not a drop of water in the air, but it's better than the stuffy little cottage I've spent so much time in.
Feeling productive, I begin to search for any sign of food or life for the third time that week. I don't think there will be, for I may be the only one still alive. And then I see it. Small, thin, wilting. Yet still determined. A beautiful lily, its petals delicate. It is drooping and wilting, but its core remains strong, pulling water from the thirsty soil. It's a wonder! It lifts my spirits and I laugh and laugh.
Oh, that we could all be like that beautiful lily. Resilient, determined to push past our challenges and difficulties. Though life is not perfect, and it's not always fair, giving up is like accepting it.
Still marveling, I begin to hunt for more. And I find one. And another. Soon there is a wavering path of lilies!
The terrain is rough, but I push on over many hours. Finally, I see a tree and I feel a cool draft blowing in, eager and sweet. After a time, I discover a river. And I hear people laughing! I know them. By pursuing those wonderful lilies, I've found where I belong. And I hope to stay there for as long as I live.