A tiny thought has been knocking at my mind's door. It's been tap, tap, tapping; some days very loudly, so much so that it distracts me from anything else. Other days, it is subtle and soft, rhythmic, like my pulse; in sync with the rise and fall of my chest.
The tiny thought blew in from a distant place, a far away land. I do not know exactly when it arrived, but I surmise it came in on the fierce gales of the mid-life late winter storm, which took place just as the ice began to recede on the lake, reminding us that winter had not yet let us go. Just as I realized that this stage of my life was not yet ready to let me go.
I'd thought I was impervious to the tiny thought. The thought, though small in one's mind, proves powerful for many women. I've heard stories of the tiny thought and have been witness to the tiny thought's metamorphosis. It starts as a seed and grows to a longing, a home sickness, an unspoken knowing. You will know, friends say. You will know if this thought Is meant for you. Some women open the door and let the tiny thought in. They welcome her in from the cold and offer her a cup of tea and a place to warm herself by the fire. Some women let the tiny thought stay for a while or they let the tiny thought make herself at home. Then, it is as though the tiny thought was never just a thought but instead real and touchable, flesh and blood and always and forever.
When I first heard the knocking, I knew it was the tiny thought who had arrived. I'd felt the storm. It has churned something inside of me as much as it had caused a stir in the early spring birds and eager buds. I crept to the window of my mind and peered out.
"I see you and I know you see me, too," said the tiny thought, smiling at me.
"You are correct," I replied. "I see you, too, however, you have the wrong mind. You must be lost."
No," whispered the tiny thought, emphatically, "The wind blew me to you."
I shook my head. "Well then, so be it. Perhaps the wind did carry you from there to here but this is where you are going to stay- right here on the stoop of my mind. I don't care if you get tired or hungry or lonely. This is where your journey ends with me."
The tiny thought gave me a tiny smile and said, "I'll wait here. I'll wait for you if it's sunny or cold or rainy or windy. I'll wait for you when I am cold. I will wait for you when I am hungry. The wind blew me here and this is where I shall stay."
At first, I tried to blow the tiny thought back to where she came from, but no sneezing, no yawning, or jumping on one leg with my head titled to the side, made any difference whatsoever. It was as though she was stuck right there, like glue, perpetually knocking on my mind's door. I'd play music to cover up the sound. I'd busy myself with all the things that makes one's day busy, trying to forget, yet when I'd lay in bed at night, I could hear the tiny thought's tiny cough. "It's getting cold out there," I'd think to myself. "Maybe I should let her in."
As though she'd read my mind the tiny thought would cry out, "I'm fine, I'm here when you are ready to open the door. I'm not going anywhere.
"Good night then," I would murmur, falling into slumber.
"Good night," she would sing as she hummed a soft and gentle lullaby.
Over time, I have become accustomed to the tiny thought at my mind's door. I sneak a look out my window and there she is, and we exchange smiles. I water the flowers on my mind's door stoop each morning and there is the tiny thought, always smiling up at me.
"There you are," I greet her.
"I'll never leave you," she reminds me, cheerfully.
"I know," I reply, before shutting the door.