Place dû Grande Marché, Tours, France
“Bien écouter et bien répondre est une des plus grandes perfections qu’on puisse avoir dans la conversation.”
François de la Rochefoucauld 1613-1680
To listen closely and reply well is the highest perfection we are able to attain in the art of conversation.”
I blew on the window and saw old Jack Frost. Taking my finger, I drew a heart but as quickly as it was drawn, it was gone. Is that what love was like? Was it there one minute and gone the next? Did it come in on the wind and leave with the rain? This is a question I couldn’t answer. And no matter how many time my breath gave me canvas to draw on the window pane, t never gave me the answer I was seeking. The love I was seeking was never there.
She sits at the table and stares out the window. It’s a cold day, the wind is blowing and frost forms on the glass panes. Even from across the room, I can feel her longing. She doesn’t move. I am not even sure she blinks. I do see her reach for the glass. She never draws anything but a heart. And the heart, the love never lasts. It always fades away before she has a chance to capture it.
The house looks so warm. The snow is slowly growing deeper. The flakes are large and heavy, sticking to my hat, coat and gloves as I make my way towards my car. I see her everyday looking out the window. She never smiles. I wave to her but she never waves back. Even from here, I can sense something is right. Sometimes there is a heart on the window, but before I can tell if she has written something else, it has faded.
Why doesn’t she look my way? Why doesn’t she feel my love? I reach out to her. Doesn’t she see that? Maybe My love doesn’t come in the manner which she expects. I am not a knight in shining armor. I won’t marry her. I won’t forcibly move her from the chair and the window, but I will wait. I will wait patiently. She used to know me. We used to spend time together, quietly talking and listening. But she turned her eyes away and lost sight of what matters. Now she sits and draws hearts on the frosted window pane, when all the love she will ever need is here with Me, her Lord.
Being succinct and precise with words is not a quality I possess. I tend to be loquacious and verbose. For me to limit a post to 50 words would be like trying to stop the wind from blowing, but to be a good writer, it is important to write well and well doesn’t always mean more. (56 words).
I spend to much time dreaming and not enough time doing. I make lists. I make plans. I read and research something I want to do. I read for pleasure. I think about all the what ifs in life and make more lists of what would be different if I was different.
I stay inside. I’m hiding from the world right now. I shouldn’t be. I’m in a new city with new things to see and do, so I make a list again. And promise myself that tomorrow will be different. That the part of me that loves exploring life and learning new things isn’t dead. It’s just recuperating from an almost fatal wound.
I spend too much time dreaming and not enough time doing when I am not writing. I need to really live my life to have something worthy of which to write.
The Power of Story
Pieces of the Whole
Writing New Chapters when Life takes a Detour
read what you love
Enriching my life with books
My life on an unexpected path 