Another day of writing. Thank you, Jesus. This was a 15 minute segment. Yesterday was probably 30 minutes to an hour. I count today as more successful than yesterday, because I could tell myself when to start, start, tell myself when to stop, and stop.
Now to face the rest of life.
Ice crystals frosting over the freezer door and trips to “The Snow” in the mountains were all I knew about the killing cold called Winter. Then I found myself in an ocean of snow. Not just any ocean– a dirty, stale ocean, still on the surface, and churning deep below. The volcanic activity was the flame and clang of factories, dusted with weepy white, lazily smoking plumes of smoke into the heavens.
And look what came out, as this curious magma belched out from within, and cooled, and hardened. Things — so many things, odds and ends that machines can hammer out. All the contents of a heart. Because the mold had to come from somewhere.