288 North

Some days, the words tiptoe in, surprisingly fragile and unbidden.

I pause my kitchen work —slicing tri-colored peppers as thin as can be, rolling chicken in crunchy panko laced with parmesan and pepper—and wander to my office, scribbling a word or a phrase in one of five fat notebooks, pads of paper crammed with ideas that might or might not see the light of day.

Softly, after the magical trifecta of time, solitude, and silence have had their way, I will write. But the in-between time? Now that is far from soft, resembling violent claps of thunder and bolts of lightning illuminating; terrorizing the night sky, and my writing pad.

William Faulkner once said: If a story is in you, it has to come out.

Here’s a peek into a few lines from one of my notebook pages:

~Pouty

~Buttered Toast

~Flowery Perfume

–Moonlighting

–Permission Slip

–But…but…but

–Bludgeoned

Behind each of these words lies a story untold. The jotted words are personal prompts, meaningless codes for anyone but me.

The notebooks are chockful, while the pieces of story themselves—words bustling, teeming with an array of unrestrained and moving parts—are in disarray, unruly ideas bumping; overlapping; a disunified ruckus. Stories undressed, without form.

Flailing, waiting to be tamed.

My jumbled mind requires rest to write, rest that has been marginal as of late, and I feel its absence throbbing in my bones. When these seasons come knocking, as they sometimes do, morning walks alone will no longer cut it.

So I drive.

It is a profitable trick of the trade; a tool in my writer’s work belt.

I firmly believe every writer needs a thinking place. (Or two or three.)

288 North is one of mine.

When the noise of life ramps up, rising to a brazen and fevered pitch, I buckle up, put the truck into reverse, and exit our driveway.

We have some history, this highway, and I. For more than five years we have met, the smooth path rising to greet me like an old friend, inviting me to fully exhale. A long stretch of road blissfully free of cluttered billboards.

288 North is lovely, always.

Snowy, ice-covered branches gradually give way to verdant buds that adorn the bare branches, a silhouette against sapphire skies. In time, long-awaited wildflowers dot the grass, glowing specks of purple, golden, and rose—dewy in summer’s pulsing heat, as puffy clouds thicken above, beating their chests in such humidity.

And autumn, oh autumn! Mustard-gold, fiery red and burnt orange leaves dance in the playful, chilly wind. All too soon these beauties drop, fluttering to earth before the winter whistles snow, again.

Regardless of the season, my mind relaxes as I cruise this glorious patch of road, enjoying God’s creation on wide display.

Soon fresh ideas grow, like April’s cherry blossoms, poking forth gradually, blooming in a natural, breezy way. Murky waters now run clear.

I cannot say why driving this stretch works, but I imagine it is a combination of ingredients: the abrupt change of scenery, the wide, open roads, the beauty of nature, the relinquishment of trying so hard, and the kindness of God.

Indeed, I have been graced a lunchbox of fresh manna, bits gathered from the corners of tattered notebooks and made into a feast.

Ideas once wilting and gasping are now gathered, alive, and galloping. I smile and gently cup them as I return home, ready to write.

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