A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.
— Franz Kafka
One of the hardest realizations after college was how ordinary my days had become. The same routine, seeing the same places, meeting the same people, day after day. Occasionally, would come a butterfly moment, when ordinary transformed into extraordinary, and my inner spark could shine.
spider plant babies waterfall
glow with health
creating thought collage
redolent with youth
Years later, I am locked into a similar repeating pattern, day after day, mostly domestic: cooking, cleaning, overseeing homework, laundry, ad infinitum. Writing keeps me sane, and permits the daily grind to be grist for a deeper calling. Because I must write, I find 15 minutes here and there to create. Success is continuing to write, continuing the daily chores, and finding beauty where I can. Once in a while, comes a butterfly moment, when an idea, the time to write it and the words sort themselves into a magical order, and something extra shines forth. Something I didn’t intend results; creation takes on its own life.
On my daily walk, I contemplate small white blooms, fountaining from tiny bulbs. They bloom only a few days out of each year. They might have green foliage for three months. BAM comes the frost, and the small plant dies back into dormancy. These few days of bloom take a year of effort. Yet that bulb, smaller than a fava bean, erupts into snow white beauty, a true butterfly moment of transformation.
Would I keep writing if I only had a few days to shine each year? Am I as dedicated as a bulb?
spark hides in bulb
snowdrop bursts forth
after long winter dormancy
head bowed, grace
Copyright 2014 Brenda Davis Harsham
Written, in part, for the Haibun Thinking Week 12, Freestyle Week.