25 February, 2015

Just Write - Winter Nights

The other day I was browsing, and I came across this: Just Write. The main idea, unfathomably enough, is to just write. And write whatever enters your head, however it comes out - it's about being real and mixing the ordinary with the extraordinary. It's an exercise in free writing basically. I thought it was a great idea, and so... I did it. I just wrote it out in one sitting, letting the words follow each other - almost mindlessly, not trying to write it right. Anyway, here's what came out: 

You know sometimes there are nights that feel distinctly wintery? With a howling wind bringing cold weather from the east, and sneaking draughts through cracks in the doors? And then there are summer nights. What's the difference? I'm not sure, but I do know that tonight is a summers night. The wind is blowing in gusts, making the trees and cornstalks quiver and me wonder “Is that rain?”. But, contrary to those wintery nights when all you want to do is snuggle down under soft blankets and enjoy the feeling of being safe and cozy while the world outside battles, the air is warm and the darkness feels eerie. It seems to have a sense of foreboding, like something could happen – something unpleasant. The mirrors on the mobile hanging in front of the window rattle softly, then for just a moment the world is still, before the corn leaves rustle again. I went out in it – I know what it's like. The air is kind of thick – not smokey, not dusty; thick. Indescribable; it's a summers night.

But let me imagine, for just a moment, a winter's night. The wind is still present, but it's slightly stronger. The air is bitingly cold, and the wind whips the chilliness into me. The trees make their chorus, only this time the possibility of rain is reality, and soon it comes in little drops falling on the roof, like a lullaby. It's sort of wild out there, but it somehow brings up an instinct to snuggle with a cup of hot something, and good old book, and bury deep down under a blanket from a dear friend. Winter nights are made for fluffy new socks – thick full cushioned ones, and big woollen jumpers – like the one from my grandpa that clearly would've fitted him better than me. Winter nights are full of possibilities and magic. Anything's possible – your wildest dreams and greatest fantasies. The best winter nights are during winter, when the evenings are long and the firelight dwindles, and it's still four hours until midnight. But the strangest thing is this: winter nights can happen in summer, and summer nights can happen in winter. It's a feeling. It's an ambience. It's an aura. Perhaps, it's an attitude.

Oh, and winter nights were made for stargazing. The stars seem to shine brighter and more clearly. That's where the magic comes in, and heaven descends, and the infinite seems possible. It's when time slows, and darkness deepens, and stars illuminate. It's when we realize, we are so small. We are but tiny specks in tiny corners of this wide wide world. We are nothing, we cannot be measured. Our lives, so important to us; our problems, so huge to us; our knowledge, so infallible to us – it is but the minutest part of the expansive universe God created. And back of all the stars, above the endless heavens, is God himself. And here is where it becomes amazing: God has us in His heart. There is no moment He is not thinking of us; there is no second when He's not looking out for our safety and well-being. There is no time when He is not sending His blessings, down through the stars, past the howling winds, through our tightly wrapped blankets, and into our undeserving hearts. Somehow, on winter nights, God feels closer.

It was kind of freeing to just write, and not be writing for a specific purpose, or trying to make everything proper. I really enjoyed it, I'm hoping to do it again, often, and I'd encourage you to try it for yourself. Seriously, just write! (I'd love to read what you've written too. :)

Oh, and I'm linking up to the latest 'Just Write' post over on the extraordinary ordinary too. :) 

1 comment:

  1. So now I know why I like winter better. :) Except winter never comes for us; but it's true that it's the feeling of winter, not actually winter... So maybe it does come for us.
    Anyway, I really liked reading this. I find it hard to write because 1) I'm such a perfectionist, so I can't just let the words flow. They won't be perfect! Only if I write to someone I know or only for myself can I let the words come freely. 2) It makes me feel so vulnerable. I find it really hard to show people my work. It's fear, I guess.. Fear of failure, fear of being laughed at, of saying something wrong, but mainly fear of being humiliated. Losing my pride. For me, I see most of my fears stem from pride. It's hard....


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