Shivering in the morning chill: champagne air which the British found only in the hill stations of India, I huddle deeper into my sweatshirt. Pulling the hood over my head, I peer into the predawn darkness, trying to see my companion: the only other soul awake at this insane hour. I relax when I can make out the shape of the tree.
Yep, still there.
I am here too.
I stumble to my desk, to write as many words as I can, riding that stream of early morning clarity, when the lucidity of my sub-consciousness wraps its legs around the echoes of my conscious mind. The emptiness before logic, connectivity and analysis takes over. Gold dust moments: when my gut is laid bare.
Shuffling back to the kitchen, I empty the dregs of the cafetiére into my oversized cup. While the now-gone-cold coffee microwaves, I stretch and look out to the first shards of silver breaking over my tree.
They soar into the skies, these trees. Anchoring themselves in dirt, they spread out their leaves and fly. Year after year, among the debris of everyday, they break through the cycle of birth and death.
I think I started sharing my daily #treeoflaxmi because it fit what I was becoming. Something I loosely term a persistence of write.
The daily diligence of turning up, of obsessively skimming the sunrise. A letter, a word, sometimes a full paragraph at a time. A blog post, a short story or a novel, it doesn’t matter. Just so long as I keep going.
You do it often enough and at some precise moment in the future you find there is pattern, a rhythm to the routine. Like a slow bake rising in the oven, you begin to make out the individual molecules of emergence.
It is hypnotic, almost meditative, allowing you to shut down all your senses but one.
Drowning out the atmosphere outside and the chatter inside, so finally you no longer stand between story and the keyboard.
Staying with it: keeping with the process. Often turning down an invite the previous night, for all you can think of is turning up the next dawn. Don’t wonder about how long you can do it: the world does not exist beyond the next morning.
When luck turns up I will be here.