Unexpected Writes, Quiet Moments, Chance Beginnings

The bus smelled of rain and something faintly floral, like someone’s forgotten perfume. I hadn't intended to write today, not really. It was Tuesday, that particular shade of gray where everything feels slightly unfinished, a little hesitant. Bernard was off at the workshop, thankfully – those men and their meticulous planning; it always seemed to heighten my own restless energy. I’d been staring out the window, mostly, watching the leaves shift in the breeze, collecting them in my mind like fallen petals. Then, of course, I found myself opening the laptop.

It wasn't a grand plan, you understand. Just…there it was. The screen illuminated, a quiet invitation. It’s funny how these things happen, isn’t it? Like discovering a forgotten corner in your own house – suddenly, there’s space for something new, something unexpected. I began to write about the autumn equinox gathering, Phyllis and I sitting amongst the rosemary and lavender, discussing the shifting seasons with a seriousness that bordered on the absurd. It felt…necessary, even though I hadn't consciously decided it would be.

I suppose it’s similar to packing for a trip you don’t intend to take. You gather items – scarves, a light jacket, perhaps a guidebook – not because you need them, but because you want to be prepared for the *possibility* of needing them. It's about holding onto options, doesn’t it? Like a tiny hand reaching out to grasp at something that might change course, diverting from the trajectory we have already charted out.

The thing is, I don’t think I consciously recognized the urge to bring the laptop. It was more like an instinct, a quiet recognition of potential. You know how sometimes you pick up a pebble and turn it over in your hand just because it looks interesting? That same feeling, I suppose. An acknowledgement that even a small thing, a momentary distraction, could open itself into something larger than anticipated.

And then there’s the strange part about wanting to be prepared. Not for a specific writing session, no. But simply…ready. As if some version of myself, some slightly delayed and perhaps bewildered iteration, might suddenly appear with an impulse to put words on a screen. It's not logical, really, is it? A bit like trusting astrology – it doesn’t always tell you what *will* happen, but suggests the possibilities are there to be discerned.

I think a lot of us do this, don't we? Carry little pockets of potential within us. A small notebook for jotting down observations, a favorite pen, a packet of seeds - each one a quiet promise to ourselves. They aren’t demands; they're gentle suggestions – invitations to explore, to create, to simply *be*.

It occurred to me that this habit—this accumulation of “just in case” items—is perhaps a way of safeguarding against the feeling of being entirely adrift. It's an attempt to anchor ourselves to some semblance of control, even if that control is ultimately illusory. A small reassurance that we can always shift course, adjust our sails, if necessary.

And so, I sat there on the bus, writing about Phyllis and the rosemary, a strange sense of peace settling over me. It was as though this unexpected moment – born from a simple act of carrying a laptop – had opened up a space for something beautiful to emerge. Perhaps that’s all any of us really need: A willingness to embrace the quiet possibilities that lie dormant within each day.