I’d like to tell you a secret.
I’ll lean in close…
…like we’re seated in the corner of a café, stacked between the crumbling bricks of some Main Street plaza. I will take a slow sip from the mug wrapped snug within the hollow of my hand. I will breathe it down, my something warm—two creams, two sugars, two minutes before it starts to tickle my brain, make my heart beat like a drum.
And you—you’ll sit across from me, probably drinking your something warm, too. And you’ll look at me—eyes blinking, heart bending—soul waiting for me to tell you this secret. This something sacred, something shared.
“It’s okay,” I’d tell you.
“It’s okay to disappear. To fall out, to fall away, to fade from fame into that dim, faint whisper.”
I’d take another sip of my something warm, look up from the rising steam and see the lost in your eyes.
“Really,” I’d tell you, “It’s okay.”
. . .
I know that secret—the secret to disappearing. I’ve known it for the past three months—a time that I’ve fallen, both out and away—delicately faded from fame into that faint whisper. No tipping toes, no crumb trails, no traces. Just gone.
S T O R Y
Living and telling my story. And the living and the telling both require the utmost of, well, these. . .
It requires the attention of steady eyes, strained to look at what is, as well as what could be. It requires the long-suffering of spirit, an unwavering patience that is trained to be content with waiting . . . the mastered art of working, not wailing, for the things you so desire. It requires the gratitude of a thankful heart, the will to give pause and give thanks for what is your right now—the very right now that has been placed into your wistfully wrinkled hands.
My quiet these days, my quiet on this blog, in the car without music, in the house without television. It has been me living out loud the silence of the secret that, it’s okay to disappear. It’s okay to live. To fall away from the noisy world and just live and write and breathe and be.
So, what will you do with that secret? Will you pick up and go? Pack your torn apart suitcase and go conquer that mountain, ten miles down the road? Will you wake up early, trickle streams of steaming water into a porcelain tub, lay and raisin up, drown out your crazy skin? Will you get lost in the maze of books upon shelves, indeed, find yourself in the forest burning with stale, bound pages?
I so hope you do.
I so hope you’ll be, too.