Writer Worrying
“I’m nervous for you.”
“You are?” I say.
“Yeah. How do you know where you’re going? Do you have a GPS for this thing?”
“You mean my Book of Beginnings? That thing?”
“Yeah, that thing.”
You are tapping the teaspoon lightly against your jeans now, just above your knee. I reach for the little white bowl of blueberries and pop a berry in my mouth.
“Rumor has it, ” I smile, “that those who are prone to getting lost will get lost even with a GPS. I don’t need one.”
“But you’re small, and it’s a long trip. I want to be sure you get where you’re going.”
“It’s okay, ” I reach for another blueberry. So round, so sweet-tart this morning. “Because I know something you don’t know.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“When one is ready for a thing it makes its appearance. Napoleon Hill said that. He’s right. I don’t need a GPS. I’ll find my way, because things will appear when I need them.”
“You trust a guy named Napoleon?”
“Heh.”
You are still tapping the spoon against your jeans. I watch with amusement.
“It’s like on my walk today. I was thirsty. It’s annoying to walk when I’m thirsty. I rounded the corner on Browning Drive and saw new hostas poking out of the ground. You know me. I had to touch the fresh hostas. When I bent down to run my finger along their ridges, I noticed a droplet of water on each and every leaf tip. A touch of my index finger, and each droplet became mine. Hosta to finger to tongue, oh my.”
“Good thing you’re small. That’s an awfully tiny drink.”
I tap your knee now, just for a moment, then tickle it until you give me a look of mild and mischievous apology.
“When I rounded another corner, I said aloud, ‘Here, I have violets!’ Did you know you can eat violets? Leaves and flowers both. Just don’t eat the yellows. They’re toxic. But the purples and whites are so good for you. These were purple. First I picked a leaf and ate it. Tasted like the smell of new-cut grass. Then I plucked a bloom and opened it with my fingers. It’s pretty cool, you know. Has little furry things that cup the center piece. I felt them first, then ate the bloom too. When I did that, I closed my eyes. Closing your eyes changes things. I suddenly knew that violets taste like uncooked sweet corn. And I started dreaming what it might be like to have a bowl of buttered violets, lightly salted.”
“Sheesh. You’ll eat anything, won’t you. You should be careful about that.”
“I’m careful. I know my wild edibles. That’s why I ate some forsythia too, on the way back home. Tossed the first one because the center was brown. Found another one perfectly soft and golden. So many, you know. If you can’t eat one, you can eat another. You’d never go hungry for lack of blooms.”
You tilt your head and purse your lips sideways.
“On my walk, I also found a big old tree someone just cut down. Could smell the sawdust. I felt mad. I found a brand new electric pole that Con Ed finally put up to replace the one that burned in that big storm last fall. The pole was pine-smooth and smelled like Murphy’s oil. At the corner of Clinton, I found a woman holding her coffee cup; her carpool ride pulled up just as I passed and I could hear them greeting one another and laughing. In the top window of the A-line Tudor, I saw a Tot-finder sticker, faded and grey. Then, right before I got back to the house I found a short man with dark hair and a beige beanie cap, walking his bicycle up the sidewalk. I moved into the street to put space between him and me. I knew I could use all of this in our Book of Beginnings. Either in small bits today or for whole chapters later on.”
You put the spoon on the table now, and I pick it up. I close my eyes and run my fingers along the edge of the spoon, tracing each curve until I’m back where I started. With my eyes still closed, I put the spoon into the bowl of blueberries until I feel the weight of one roll onto the tip. I am still in darkness when I hold the spoon towards you.
“Here, ” I say. “See? A person can do a thing on instinct. A person can trace her way. Things will appear just when you need them. You need a blueberry, don’t you?”
I feel a little tug and I know you’ve taken the blueberry bait.
Photo by mullica. Creative Commons, via Flickr. Story by L.L. Barkat, author of Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Creativity & Writing.
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Buy a year of Every Day Poems, just $5.99— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In April we’re exploring the theme Dragons & Creatures.
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Maureen Doallas says
Enjoying what I hope will be a continuing series, LL.
________________
Knowing What’s Good
You take the bait,
reach for another
blueberry — no need
for a bowl or spoon
round as the edibles.
You know what’s good
for you. Closing eyes,
you dream of getting
where you’re going,
your thirst mine. A tickle
of leaves and flowers
and first-picked blooms purple
your cool furry tongue. You
taste soft, yellow-buttered,
opened like electric fingers
that suddenly tap wild
and mischievous in the space
you can trace to the center
of darkness. You feel the tug
of beginnings in that first
book you eat, hungry for one
like you, moved to have
noticed how, when I get lost
in the curve of your back,
things change.
L. L. Barkat says
love this poem, Maureen. One of my favorite phrases:
“You feel the tug
of beginnings in that first
book you eat”
I figure it already qualifies as a series, with 3 down and one in the hopper. After that, who knows? 😉
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
I wrapped my worry up in a poem about a blackbird. Wet with dew and tears. And took a walk across the miles, landed here.
And thought, if I were a beginning I would want to burrow in the pages of this book. Hide out where all the small things grow in light of their discovery.
Dig my roots down in a field of violets among the edibles. And grow among the pages, and the words taking shape.
And worry is not worry after all. But peace. Settled in the pages, with all the new beginnings.
Red eraser marks have ripped a hole and worry has slipped through. No place among the beautiful beginnings, blue and round, sweet and small.
Where did worry go? Lost among the hostas and the violets I hope.
++++++++++++++
this whets my appetite for the book, indeed, L.L. And I like Maureen hope this is a series leading bread crumbs to the completion of the story waiting to be told.
Maureen Doallas says
Elizabeth,
The only end to any story is the one we give it.
Elizabeth W. Marshall says
Ah, indeed, friend. Intrigued by this book and what it holds between its covers. 🙂
L. L. Barkat says
I would like to see a worried blackbird poem 🙂
Will the blackbird eat the bread crumbs?
Monica Sharman says
Here’s the first thing I felt when I read this: in the writing, you’re having fun. I want to feel like that when I write.
L. L. Barkat says
How do you think you might be able to do that, Monica? Thoughts? 🙂
Marcy Terwilliger says
He’s only three but he’s a big boy you see and everyday since he was born a song I’d sing to rock upon. Bye, Bye, Black Bird it’s time for Lance to fall asleep, Bye, Bye, Black Bird lay your head down and go to sleep. This baby boy was my saving grace, he gave me hope, he gave me a place. Everyday about noon time I’d make
up this song and rock that baby of mine who was big and strong. Bye, Bye, Black Bird, it’s time for Lance to fall asleep, Bye, Bye, Black bird my little boy is falling fast asleep. As the song went on and the rocking to my little grandson would fall fast asleep too.
They won’t eat your crumbs, the Raven Black since they are a gentle bird but they will be back. They will be your friend, you can let them in and sit upon your head. You can treat them as a dear old soul, they will stay and be your pet. They’ve been known to stay for many a year and follow you if you move dear. So make the black bird your constant friend and open the door and let the bird in.
L. L. Barkat says
This whole thing is like a little prose-song, Marcy. I love watching you play with words 🙂