Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

My life is in rework. Oh yes, this always happens- it's a part of life. Change, growth, etc, etc. But this time…this time its different. I've always been a stickler for inside change, praying and reading things till I've dealt with the turmoil inside of myself, shaking off old ways of thinking that don't work, getting on with the new ways, that sort of thing.
This time though, this time, my outward life is changing. This is odd because it hasn't happened all that often in my lifetime.
I write less. Oh, I write everyday. But I don't write fiction and I'm not focused on writing. It's turning into a dear old friend whom I love instead of a murderous conniving vixen. The murderous hold it had on me (write to be a success) is falling away. In fact, I don't view myself as a writer. Do you know what a relief that is? what heaven? Oh, I write but I don't have to. No one's making me. It's not my career. It's my choice. And everyday, I think…hmmm…I'll chose you writing to explore the day and the past days. Oh! You're great for that. I really enjoy hanging out with you.
I've stopped posing on paper- I've stopped trying to be someone else on paper. That was a revelation during this time that I haven't been able to write due the discomfort of post-hernia surgery. It came to me…I was trying to be someone else on paper. And now I'm me. I'm not sure when it happened but it did. I am many many things (thank you very much) but I am me. On paper. No more of this trying to be highbrow and meaningful and deep and symbolic and cool and tempered. Oh, I'm all those things all right but I'm so much more.
So there's that. But that's still an inside change.
No, it's this outward change I'm trying to get to and that is this: I sew. I'm a crazy sewing woman. I love to sew. I'm piecing together this child's quilt by hand and I just adore it. I'm moving slow as slow can be (because of the hernia recovery) but this gives such pleasure. I can savor. I can sew out straight lines and then just savor it for a day. It's such incredible satisfaction. I love to go slow. It gives this creation of things such a zest and tang. It gives color.
And I pour over sewing books. I took my beginning sewing class so things make sense and the books make more make sense. It's coming to me. I pour over my sewing machine manual. It's fun! Reading about my sewing machine (which I know so little about) is fun. Which sounds insane but there you are.
I'm finding what I really love and guess what? It's sewing. I do like clothes (okay, maybe it's more than just liking) but it's that sewing thing. You sew it and it exists. It's there. I think I like the process more than the awesome product. Funny like that.
Oh, I still love Literature. That'll always be there. I'm a bookish girl but I'm so much more than just a bookish girl with a BA in Literature and Writing. And because I'm more than that…things fall into my lap. Like a few nights ago…it came to me. Just came to me. I know exactly who I want to do my doctorate work on. I want to do it on L.M. Montgomery. She wrote all these fabulous novels and her writing is Good and her descriptions are Great and I have loved her since I read her at twelve and college made me ashamed of liking her but now that I'm past college and being out of college doesn't mean I'm not intelligent anymore…well, I just adore her. I love her mention of how Little Aunt Em is known for her spinning and her knitting and her cables. And this mention of knitting (because I've never seen Montgomery mention it for any other character in her novels) illustrates a ton about Aunt Em. She's a mysterious tiny woman, chock full of wisdom. Spinning and knitting give this breadth and depth. So yeah. If I get my doctorate, I'm doing it on Montgomery. My thesis study will definitely include something about the domestic arts because she was a big believer in them- while still being a professional highly successful woman. And I'm a big believer in them too. Montgomery was so highly successful and she left behind massive amounts of journaling and tons of interviews so the material is there and well…I have a strong resonance for her. Her descriptions of nature have always cut to my heart. I'd like to think my own ways of speaking about nature are influenced by her. My writing on nature has always been my most excellent and I'd like to think it has to do all those years of reading her.

Anyway. Things are happening. Changing. I'm growing and moving and pushing and resting. It's wonderful just to spend time resting and pondering. It's a good time.

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Out for a Walk with the Wind and Water

I love being alone in the park along the river. As soon as I step out of my car, I tell that I’m alone by the unusual silence stretching out in all directions. It’s a special sort of hush because instead of human voices dominating the space, it’s the gentle call of birds, animals, wind, and water that fill the air. These are much more gentle and quiet for they represent a continuation of a certain life on this planet, a life much older than humans.

I glow inwardly as I walk the park alone and for the first time in days, I smile to myself. Some Buddha statues wear slight smiles, the internal smile to the eternal world and as the memory of the statues comes back to me, the pleasure of connection causes me to relax even more.

When alone outdoors, I can relate to myself most fully and watch and listen with more mindfulness. I hear the birds first—the chickadees scolding one another and sounding like sweet, soft toy horns and then the cardinals, chirruping and checking up on one another. The sparrows hop and cheep in barren branches, never to be overlooked and always numerous.

Then comes the sound of water, lapping along the riverbank, rolling itself under the bridge.

The wind follows, shifting a blanket of leaves across my path and swaying tree branches overhead. The evergreens branches issue a soft shirrrrr-ing sound as the wind passes through. They retain a green elegance while everything else is brown, stripped down bare.

After I have heard the squirrels cracking walnuts and rustling through the dried weeds, and after I have seen the wind ruffling the river’s top, then finally, I can hear myself. That sound is very low and deep and it takes me a little while to hear it, after the delight of hearing everything else. But it is there and it inevitably opens up what I need to know that day whether it be comfort, direction, an answer, a question, or all of it. It has taken my whole life to hear myself and I have paid a great price for it but I would do it again in a heartbeat. For when a woman has herself, the nightmares slip away back into the inky, black darkness and living life is hers.

And so the wind moves through the evergreens, it plays along the water, and dives between the feathers of the birds. It touches my face and we walk together, two entities atop this impossible blue planet.

Ouroboros in the Park

Japanese anemone flowers open blush pink petals in the park.  Their tall, delicate stems hold up the tender flowers, and in the centers glow tiny pistil-laden suns. Furry carpenter bees buzz in a frenzy, adoring the tiny suns. Like all true worshipers, they circle round and round the yellow centers, smearing themselves in joy and pollen.

I also circle a center, but the object of my adoration is the park itself. As the path guides me around and around, my body, full of the usual tensions and distresses, takes the cue, finds the beat and the measure and walks to it.

The English Romantic Poets of the early 19th century were great walkers and believed that walking was essential to writing to poetry. With the body busy, the mind can walk freely, investing in its visions and tunneling down into what were previously subterranean thoughts.

This small park is my open field, my verdure, my ramble through hill and dale. My feet move on, sometimes slowing to a near pause, other times hurrying, suddenly propelled by a new and vivid notion.

About the fifth time around, a sort of mesmerism occurs and I fall under the trance of the day. The circle becomes a mantra uttered by my feet—knees, hips, shoulders, and arms follow along and we head down the path. I must walk, I must keep walking, I must continue to walk and the resolution becomes a reassurance as a cool breeze fills my lungs; I am alive and refreshed.

I pass under the oaks and dodge their falling acorns. Sometimes I entertain the notion that squirrels are hurling them, but when I catch sight of their small triangular faces they look as startled as me. It is the oaks themselves that are throwing the acorns down. I momentarily consider bringing an umbrella, opening it when I walk under the oaks, but this an old consideration that I’ve been contemplating for years of autumns and I’ve never acted on it. Instead, I dodge and the squirrels stare hard.

Finally I have to go but the revolutions and bees in the park stay with me even after I leave, continuing  with their wheeling. They pass through the days and nights, rapturous and serene, monotonous some days and a miracle on others, and on most days both. They exist in the circle that is sometimes opened, sometimes closed. Within the circle, everything changes and nothing changes each time we pass through.

 

Kazuaki Tanahashi, Miracle at Each Moment