Five Minute Friday: Five

(So, I’ve been participating in a “writers’ flash mob” of sorts called Five Minute Friday. In response to a one-word prompt, hundreds of writers sit down and write for five minutes flat. No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font or punctuation; unscripted and unedited. Here’s today’s edition…setting the timer….)

Five Minute Friday: Five

Go.

Five

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Five fingers

Five toes

Five work days

Give me five

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Five minutes

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I can’t write about five.

I can’t write!

Lately I haven’t written.

I haven’t felt I had five minutes – not even five minutes with some time for quiet and focus to bang out something on the keyboard.

Not even five.

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Since I went back to work a few months ago, I just have not had the time to myself I became accustomed to in order to write.

But maybe I need to get back in the saddle and suck it up.

I am not going to have much quiet time to myself.

But I still need to write.

I should still write.

I should write, even when it’s not still.

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Coming up in October some folks are challenging each other to write something once a day, every day, for the entire month.

31 days in a row of “Five Minute Fridays.”

Maybe I should do it.

Maybe I need a short term, intense goal to instill some discipline in my writing again.

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Five minutes.

Maybe the writing won’t be that great.

But maybe I need to learn how to do this even when I don’t have abundant quiet time to focus.

Especially when I don’t.

There’s lots going on to write about, heaven knows!

Get on it.

Stop. 

Five Minute Friday: Lift

(So, I’ve been participating in a “writers’ flash mob” of sorts called Five Minute Friday. In response to a one-word prompt, hundreds of writers sit down and write for five minutes flat. No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font or punctuation; unscripted and unedited. Here’s today’s edition…setting the timer….)

Five Minute Friday: Lift

Go.

Something coming down lifted me up.

Here’s how it happened.

I stepped outside this morning and the air was thick and humid with the faintest hint of a drizzle.

Dense gray clouds formed a ceiling overhead.

The morning sun provided some recessed lighting around the ceiling’s eastern edge.

Ugh.

Oppressive.

Wham!

It was sudden, loud, and gushing.

Rain came down and my spirits lifted up.

Ahh.

Cathartic.

The rain washed away the gloom.

Now the day was fresh and clean.

The rain ended nearly as quickly as it started.

The sun grew bolder and the sky-ceiling lifted.

Now I could see the horizon and start the day.

Stop.

Dove Call

We step out the front door into a humid, foggy soup.

The morning calm is highlighted by cricket chirps, dewy spider webs, and the insistent glow of the sun wending its way through the mist.

A dove coos in the distance.

I breathe deeply, close my eyes, and listen.

This is the day the Lord has made.

Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Five Minute Friday: Help

(So, I’ve been participating in a “writers’ flash mob” of sorts called Five Minute Friday. In response to a one-word prompt, hundreds of writers sit down and write for five minutes flat. No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font or punctuation; unscripted and unedited. Here’s today’s edition…setting the timer….)

Five Minute Friday: Help

Go.

A splash of blue and a flash of red signal the arrival of the blue jays and cardinals.

The little bitty brown birds flit in.

They all come to the feeder.

Some perch on the edge of the feeder and peck at the seeds.

Some forage along the ground beneath and eat up the bits and pieces that fall from above.

Looking through the glass, my mother-in-law enjoys watching them.

She tells me she has seen some of the bigger birds help feed the smaller ones.

Somebody has been filling the feeders.

She’s decided to help and has ordered a bag of seed for the cause.

People provide the seed.

The birds provide the entertainment.

Who’s helping whom?

Stop.

Five Minute Friday: Build

(So, I’ve been participating in a “writers’ flash mob” of sorts called Five Minute Friday. In response to a one-word prompt, hundreds of writers sit down and write for five minutes flat. No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font or punctuation; unscripted and unedited. Here’s today’s edition…setting the timer….)

Five Minute Friday: Build

Go.

It’s building.

Fear.

Hate.

Chaos.

A sense the world is out of control.

It’s building.

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It’s building.

Shock.

Numbness.

Paralysis.

A sense it’s no use trying.

It’s building.

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It’s building.

Determination.

Resolve.

Hope.

A sense we must try something.

It’s building.

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Chaos.

Paralysis.

Hope.

What will you build?

Stop.

Five Minute Friday: Lose

(So, I’ve been participating in a “writers’ flash mob” of sorts called Five Minute Friday. In response to a one-word prompt, hundreds of writers sit down and write for five minutes flat. No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font or punctuation; unscripted and unedited. Here’s today’s edition…setting the timer….)

Five Minute Friday: Lose

Go.

With breakfast in my belly and a busy day ahead, I pushed the button to open the garage door so I could fetch the morning paper from the box.

As the door rose into the air and the morning light slid across the floor, something caught my eye.

The sun highlighted a small, fragile, and disconnected-from-its-owner cicada wing on the concrete floor just behind my car.

The sight, surrounded by typical garage clutter, was at once sad and beautiful.

The wing no longer served its original purpose; its cicada owner no longer winging through the air from tree to tree.

But it was also stunning in its simple, delicate design.

This lost wing reminded me not to lose sight of an important truth.

Beauty exists, even in moments of loss.

Stop.

Cicada

The cicadas are here.

The cicadas are here and they are hard to miss.

They are numerous and noisy.

The story of their lifecycle is fascinating. They emerge from under the ground once every 17 years, mate, lay eggs, and die within a few weeks. The eggs hatch and the nymphs dig down into the earth where they will stay for the next 17 years…until the cycle begins again.

So, in my neck of the woods, this is their year.

Their presence has caused quite a stir and lots of comments.

Some people find them creepy.

I have to say, though, I find them fascinating.

They have an oddly alien appearance, their lives are very brief, and most of the time (with the exception of a few weeks every 17 years) they are completely out of sight. Nevertheless, their existence offers us humans some food for thought.

We can learn from these creatures.

Cicadas wait patiently, out of the spotlight, for their moment.

When the moment comes, they show up and live their short lives with everything they have.

They make lots of noise. (I am sure they consider it joyful.)

They make provisions for the next generation.

They die.

Are we really so different?

In God’s time, I am sure our 70 or 80 or 90 or 100 years of life appear as brief as the few weeks of a cicada’s life seem to us.

We have our moments.

We live our lives.

We make some noise. (I am sure we consider it joyful.)

We make provisions for the next generation.

We die.

That’s the way of things.

At times, our lives may seem long.

We assume there will be time to do the things we need or want to do.

Of course, from painful experience, we know that is not always true.

Not everyone gets 70 or 80 or 90 or 100 years.

What if all we had were a few weeks?

We can learn from the cicadas.

Live in the moment.

Seize the day.