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Thursday, September 18, 2014

20 Minutes to Pain

Gripping the Dixon Ticonderoga No. 2 Soft black pencil between thumb and pointer finger, she begins to scratch sentences across the faint blue lines on her lavender legal pad. The pain is excruciating. Is it arthritis creeping into her aged hands or something more sinister? 

She hadn’t been able to sleep. Rising out of her bed, she took care of her bladder pressure. Leaving the bathroom, she headed for the kitchen. She grabs her summer plastic cup, pushes it against the water dispenser in the door then adds crushed ice. This is really what she wants— the ice.

She sits down on the couch, it is quiet. The couch conforms to her body and she feels at peace. Her mind is itching to write. The words have eluded her for the last 6 months; maybe even a year, yet this morning the words are pouring out as if her mind is filling Dumbledore’s Pensieve. 

Ah, Harry Potter. Who knew that a children’s book series would have such a deep effect on her soul. So many lessons learned from over 100,000 pages: how friendship is important. It helps you to learn to love, protect and serve other people; what ways to stand up to bullies; how to de-stress your overactive mind, just to mention a few things she had learned.

She wished her demons were more allegory than they really were. Sadly she is not being molded by J.K. Rowling. Her life was being molded by the highest power in the universe. HIS way of molding was by the strong, but loving the freedom of choice. Then she had to deal with the consequences if her choices were wrong.

Her consequences had never been extreme, thank Heavens. Just life attributing. Like the time she lied to her mom about making a homemade bright pink play dough as a child. Her mom found the play dough months later stashed in a zippered sandwich bag deep inside the gold flour container that sat on their kitchen counter when she went to make homemade pizza. Her consequence was a grounding and a babysitter every time her parents went out. She didn’t need a babysitter, she was 10 years old – perfectly capable of watching herself, thank you very much!

The words she had written reached the length of a full page and the backside of another. Her hands ached so much she was prevented from writing further, even though her mind was willing her to carry on. If she kept going she would pay dearly later on in the day, when her wrist would scream out inflamed and throbbing. 

Frustratingly, she picked up the black pencil whose tip sits on the page and laid it down. The pad of paper sat on her lap for a minute more. Resigned, she set it down on the coffee table and headed unwillingly back to bed.