The most wonderful thing happened this morning; I missed the bus.
As I rode up to the bike dock next to Union Station where other BikeShare riders circled like vultures for a bike to be returned, the bus passed me. I walked up the hill to the bus stop to await the next shiny red Circulator. Lines were churning in my head. Thoughts. Ideas. I strode over to the long wall opposite the bus stop, took the small notebook from my purse, set in on the wall’s ledge and began to write. I wrote!
I wrote until the bus came. I let much of the long line of people board, getting as much out as I could before joining the fray to hope for a seat. I sat. I continued to write, letters bumpy but legible enough. The bus reached it’s second stop. I thanked the driver and disembarked. But I was not done writing, so I did not stop.
I sat at a table in front of work, the grey metal tables that fill with people in the hot noon sun but sit empty in the morning shade. I sat and I wrote. I wrote until I was done writing.
Then I went inside that massive stone building, walked under the bronze relief of falling books, tumbling words, to a metal room where I would sit and write some more, but not for me. This morning, I had written for me. And my world was at peace.