Update 1/22/2026
Updated 1/29/2026
“Start Writing”, the voice clambered.
“Just write… something…. Anything, just start writing”….
“Start writing…”, her teacher instructed, “start writing, it’s time..”.
“It’s time?”, she shrugged questioningly. She was not feeling ready and it was clear, visible, too apparent.
It wasn’t time for Jasmine, no that moment had not yet neared.
She looked up though with eager eyes and an earnest expression flashed forward. She tried this on as a way to feign something that almost resembled interest.
Jasmine began to contemplate the wildly abstract concept—-time, receiving it in new ways when she entered this facility, she understood some of the reality of this structure where she rested, though uneasily most nights.
Jasmine understood the concept of waiting, waiting patiently, impatiently and with teeth gritting frustration she waited.
Jasmine now waited for some burst of inspiration within that would prompt the moment to spring forth as her pen would then dash over her notebook in a passionate sprint across the page.
She imagined in a furious bout of near hysteria where the words could almost explode.
Her time to start writing was coming, it would arrive. It would jump forth after waves of thoughts crashed about all through what felt like a gravel filled, sandy, messy skull of calamitous thoughts. Jasmine was in a cluttered headspace, it was one in which she couldn’t control in the least.
She knew the thoughts would dash about & she knew they would continue to fray and scatter through her mind, in the way her desk was beginning to gather with -stuff, everywhere she looked knowing it was feeling like a room full of -stuff.
She also knew if she could just see these thoughts, gently walk with them as they entered,she could more easily arrive at the state of being Mrs. Jones had emphasized; acceptance.
……
“yes, honey….acceptance”, Jasmine whispered to her self in the tone that Mrs. Jones used to deploy.
This was a moment for young Jasmine, she was enjoying this. She inhaled…. ….
Held on to this deep pull of oxygen as it filled the lower parts of her abdomen, then she slowed, easily, softly released…… “whoooooohhhhh….”
This was an audible release.
Jasmine was in her own headspace at this point, she was wandering about through a forest of flowing thoughts. Some of these thoughts were pleasant, involving laughter & mirth.
Her body was now falling still as her gaze swayed easily with the eucalyptus leaves that rested over the stained glass window just above her right shoulder.
She remained motionless, her body was perfectly calm, pen was gripped and the thought pendulum carried a zip line of new thoughts that swung back and forth.
She now observed these thoughts as they shifted to and fro.
Jasmine loved to write, she loved having a choice over what word should come next. Choice was something Jasmine valued.
Writing was an activity that made her feel powerful but in moments like this she could only sit & dream. She dreamt with glossy eyes and lids that hung lazily. She dreamt while she was awake, she was imagining what lay beneath the surface of the linoleum flooring on which her feet rested. She pictured a long, smooth, dirt road on which she could stroll upon with her thoughts and the open skies above.
Writing was hers.
Writing was her time, it was now her space, her feelings….
Each letter was hers to select at will.
It wasn’t just the words that began to cover her page, it wasn’t the letters or the spaces between the letters.
Writing was time, writing was quiet, Jasmine loved and drank up the quiet air that wafted about through the room without notice, this was a blessing she could soak in. Sister Maria told her, “quiet is the gift God grants you, dear.” “Grants” was pronounced with a formidable -‘R’- rolled just as Maria did when she spoke in espanol.
Jasmine decided she liked writing.
She liked writing time.
Philip Dane 