Dragonflies

I was going to suggest a snappy and sassy writing assignment. But funerals are going around.

So maybe, if you're stuck today, you could write about something that grabbed the axle of your mind and jerked it out of its standard rut of expectation and taking-for-grantedness.

Like, have you ever looked closely at a dragonfly? I hadn't. Then last week I found one sitting on the front seat of my car, waiting, as if it wanted to get to soccer practice. Except it was dead. When I picked it up, one of the wings broke off. I looked at it.

I had expected geometry, symmetry, and precision. I don't know. Something like what an aerospace engineer might put together for REI's kite division. Not something produced by a six-year-old having her first go with a ball-point pen. God's design for flight. Humm. The amber dye must have been cheap: It produced coloring unevenly, the way coffee dries on the bottom of a white cup.

It scared me. Too much right now seems aimless and accidental, like that wing. I pondered that for a while. Then I saw it. If you stack that wing directly on top of another, you'll find the meticulous, miraculous message. The divine design. You should look for yourself.

Or look for your own thing. But write about it, please.