Look up! What do you see through the car window? The Alps. The Pyrenees. Three seas and an ocean.
You finally rest on a rock and write about the power in the crashing waves; rainbows vivid as if on a paper sky; and theatrical clouds and sunrays showing off feathered plumes, ribbons of light, black sinister robes, and pastel baby blankets.
Look up! What do you see in the towns as your tires roll through? Grand citadels. Quaint villages. Stone entries built for horses, threatening to scrape the paint off your car doors.
At last, you sit at a cafe and write about the ghosts you see at that ancient wellhead—a servant bustling with a bucket. A horseman dipping a ladle. A fair maiden dropping a coin. You hear the clip-clop of horses, the call of merchants, and the clang of church bells. You don’t need to imagine the bells; time couldn’t quiet their iron.
Look up! What do you see on those windy country roads? Cliches you now understand; Ireland is truly emerald. Fairy tale castles and thatched cottages really exist. France and Italy’s vineyards are as beautiful as they say.
In time, you stop by a babbling brook and put to words what your heart sees; a bridge that spans generations. In the middle, you hear the past—clashing steel as each side wars. You see the present—the same middle adorned with pink ribbons from a wedding, both sides united in love.
Look up! You are home now, in your ordinary house, your ordinary yard. You have nothing left to write. Everything is ordinary.
A hummingbird zips close and hovers, giving you a knowing look; reminding you there is no such thing as ordinary.
