Prompt #5: X Marks the Spot
Welcome to Prompt #5 of the Covid Writing Recovery Project online.
Jump in here with a reflection, then share on the other prompts if you like.
Perhaps you'll choose to respond to other people's comments,
or simply read through all you find on the site.
This is our community and our Project, which we are creating together.
Almost three years into the Covid 19 pandemic, we still don't have a map to the territory.
The global island we share keeps rearranging itself, foisting on our community
new leathery tangles of vines, mountainous fire ant nests,
and paper-thin flower blossoms the color of late sunrise.
There is a giant "X" somewhere harboring a worthy surprise for us.
What do we hope to find?
Lead us to your TREASURE!
Your words show the way!
To share your reflection, click on the word "Comments" below
then scroll to the bottom of the page and use the "Reply" form to submit your work.
1/18/2023 08:21:29 pm
Although GPS devices can locate people and places, Covid has altered the terrain. Such technology may need to go by the wayside. A new world has been born, a new map for it needs to be charted. This "global island" is more permeable now, like an archipelago, fragmented and strewn. Google maps may know my zip code but Google doesn't really know where I am. "Recalculating" has become an inner exercise where the realities of latitude and longitude no longer intersect. Ironically, it could turn out that "X" was here all along but eluded me because of the noise. Sometimes "X" appears in a dream or a holy moment. If only it would linger. For some reason "X" seems to hover over an infinite horizon. The closer it appears, the further away it is, like a reflection in a car door mirror. The mystics speak of an "eternal chase". However distant "X" might seem, I will try to navigate toward it, pandemic or not. As long as there is gravity, I trust that "X" will be somewhere nearby. That will suffice for now.
1/22/2023 06:35:18 pm
Buried treasure means the muddy shores of a deserted island, where bluest sky meets a forest of trees and my heart sprints inland, positive and optimistic. Vines the size of towering maples reach into a canopy of shadows and greens. Fern fronds protect the trail I try to follow, their fists dodging my belabored footfalls. Every living thing hums intelligence. Even what isn’t living—stone, sand, shells, soil—pulses with an intrinsic and mysterious knowledge.
1/27/2023 06:25:34 am
Riding in the crow's nest, high in the sky,
1/27/2023 07:42:02 pm
The mighty phoenix is the only living outcome of death. Zombies aren't living. Trial by fire indicates a cruel god. How else can we be? Yet the wings of the flaming bird must have fuel: oxygen. Perhaps we ought to hide in holes. Perhaps we've had enough believing in the bad. It's easier to become the virus. Someday this will all be a memory.
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