Writing with Juliet Iwelunmor

To see the door, at least once.

Amidst fears of what could be.

To see the door and debate whether to open or leave it close.

Before the rustling winds that blow.

Before trees fighting to be still.

See those holding on to dreams.

Choose to open the door.

With the courage of a day that announces to the next,

with no speech or words, no sound or noise,

they know the depths of the open.

They are like those who speak of dreams,

More desirable than the finest gold.

Amidst tear stained dust.

They open the door remembering whoever knew

They would one day open to the triumph of their thought.

Their past, so deep.

Like a multitude of stars,

erupting for these children of the night.

They open, exploding from the belly of the earth.

They open, knowing things will happen: doubt, denial, fear, fall, grace, rise, a long embrace, the fierce encounter with truth.

They open, even though the door may close.

They open, sealing their paths, like the power of rain.

They open, in wonder, in awe, in fright, in delight.

They open, knowing the sun accompanies them.

They open, bending to the fate of these times.

They open, knowing they didn’t have to open it.

They open, maintaining all of their attitudes.

They open, holding their positions, their head, their heart.

They open, in a light that reveals the glory of the skies.

They open, like the rustling winds, with trees fighting to be still.

They open, holding on to their dreams,

Knowing that it’s just a door.

All they need to do, is be open.

I spent the day nestled in a house by the woods. It’s for this hidden gem of a book club that I belong too, where the only thing allowed is a book from a different continent and maybe even good food that is representative of the book being read. They have made my life colorful and today we reflected on the gem that is Miguel Street by V.S Naipaul while eating homemade Trinidad Doubles. I kept pinching myself at the vast blessings around me. The people, the food, the book, all transported me to a life that vividly resembled growing up in O’close. We had our our characters like the book. Like Man Man, was like a man we called Baba Stone Stone and Laura, well, everyone knew a Laura, though not as tragic as her story ended. I left this communion full. I left feeling inspired to read and stay open with life, and food, plus great books. They inspired me to write the musing above. This notion of being open is how I intend to live and if you know my story, it’s how I see the act of writing grants…