From a bygone era, it’s an engraved sterling silver baby cup. Look closely and you’ll recognize the name.
When I first opened the box, years of accumulated tarnish hid the baby’s identity. Extended elbow grease reminded me of two things: 1) why I’d stored away this boxed cup, and 2) why I do not use, collect, and will‐never‐in‐any‐way amass pretty, shiny, high‐maintenance metal things.
Even so, the oddest experience unfolded as I admired the newly‐cleaned silver piece. Words dropped in—A Baby’s Cup of Dreams. As simple as A‐B‐C‐D.
Messages from other places. That happens sometimes. It’s a weird writer, woo‐woo thing.
To my writing space, I ran. My fingers grabbed specific tokens, all stand‐ins for my authorial adventure. I moved intuitively. No second‐guessing permitted.
Items included a miniature Christmas ornament, Novelist pin, a Glimmer Train magazine, a TRHOF pin, a tiny silver shell engraved “Touch Hearts,” a gratitude blessing circle, and a “Let’s Go on a Road Trip” sticker.
That two‐lane highway is only part of the bag’s glory. Check out those colors! Every character in my novel is represented.
Ahem, and uh, no. Most writers don’t color their characters. I’m not every writer. I am my mother’s daughter, my own person as she was herself.
Such an attitude matters in this world of color-by-other’s-numbers.
What also matters is recognizing the road signs that arise on the journey.
I see signs daily, each echoing springtime on my four mile walks. When the ancient baby cup resurfaced, I recognized the sign of something old, granted in a new season.
The zipper bag landed as a sign from an old friend, a woman I’ve known since 1984 as journalist and now, fellow writer. I recognized her gift as something new for how I’ve long traveled: on many roads.
There’s nothing I need.
A‐B‐C‐D is going places this spring season, journeying into my field of dreams.
How about you?