I think back on the literally thousands of shirts, socks, undies, bandanas, towels, sheets and jeans that went through the cycles. Water filling. Agitating suds and clothes. Spinning and wringing out the water. Tight, wet, compacted clothes piled in the basket waiting. You have a decision to make. Do you choose to shake them out and send the lot of them to the dryer or take time with Mother Nature to hang them one by one on the clothes line in the great outdoors?
Of course, when you finally put those freshly dried sheets on the bed, full of the smell of sunshine, all of the effort seems worth it. Closing your eyes, you inhale deeply. The crisp, clean smell of the outdoors soothes and comforts you.
Writing feels like this sometimes. You sift through the thoughts in your head, trying to make sense of all the ideas floating around. They’re all tumbled together, making no sense, no rhyme or reason. Picking and choosing the right words to put together to make cohesive thoughts and sentences becomes a challenge. Images flitter through your mind, never coming into focus clear enough to grab.
Then, all of a sudden, they begin to flow onto the page. Words, one after another, appear almost effortlessly on the paper in front of you. Your thoughts merge, coming together in a sense of purpose. Your efforts to expel the words from your mind onto the paper have met with success. What was possibly a painful experience has now subsided to a satisfied sense of achievement. Time for another load.
1. to twist forcibly: He wrung the chicken’s neck.
2. to twist and compress, or compress without twisting, in order to force out water or other liquid: to wring clothes.
3. to extract or expel by twisting or compression (usually followed by out or from).
4. to affect painfully by or as if by some contorting or compressing action.
5. to clasp tightly with or without twisting: to wring one’s hands in pain.
Part of Speech: verb