Hi Again-
I’m doing this 5 minute writing challenge again…and again. Seems I’m sort of a fan of this weekly writing game, you think?
So, a reminder in case you’ve missed it, here’s what this challenge is all about…or, in case maybe you want to play too, some time-
This is a weekly writing “game” from my bloggy friend Lisa-Jo Baker, who blogs (and writes heart-breakingly, beautiful words and stories) at http://lisajobaker.com/
So, here’s the challenge, should you accept it: you write for 5 minutes, free, like you have no fear or shame or no editor inside your head (all are hard for me)…and then you link up to her blog, and encourage the writer who links up before you. This last piece is crucial, as we need to encourage others.
Each week is a new word, a new thought starter, and you have 5 minutes to write….and are you ready? go-
Race
It’s a morning we start with the race out the door, the stop at the gas station, the shoo-shooing of the kids out the car doors and into school, a race before the bell, before the test, before the practice, before dinnertime, after the bath, then the last race into bed.
We do it so easily and yet so clumsily, as though we were orchestrated, this our life as parents to live, our work to do this rushing, while our kids, silent, bemoaning, SLOW, seemingly from another planet trudge through the lessons, the paperwork, the day as if stuck in glue.
What is this whole race about, we wonder quietly, after we’ve had a moment to ponder as we fold the laundry again at midnight, wondering if it’s worth the price we’ve already bargained to pay for with our lives.
What’s the hurry? We steam, we mutter and moan when we are rushed through life’s little moments that are harmed by not enough time, like a friend knocking too early on death’s door; sweet, innocent, new babyhood, only then do we realize life is not so clear-cut as a race, a track, a path, with a finish line, a medal to receive.
What’s the rush, we keep thinking , wondering if indeed life is worthy of complete and total chaos and rushing around. We wonder, while in slow motion we glance at all the soccer balls, Trapper Keepers and our daughter’s hair sailing past us, molasses in air, straight into the windshield, while we silently crash into the car in front of us, unaware and yet in a moment, all too aware the time had rushed by and we had missed the signal for stop.
