Worth Writing

In a child’s dreams, a child such as I was, who dreamt such dreams as I dreamt, the trees were tall, the gardens lush, and every lovely comforting thing was old and established and had been waiting just for me forever.  All gardens were Eden to a child such as I, and Eden had existed since the beginning of Our Time. 

It is hard for children such as I was to become adults such as I am and have to plant the seedlings and the bulbs and buds and wait for them to grow.  A delight to some, it can be kind of sad to some, such as I of the Seuss-like was-and-am sort.  We’re never entirely a ‘was’ or an ‘am’.  We’re always was-and-am as one.   And so some such as I plant our gardens and take our photos and wax poetic about the lushness of the tomorrows and the to-becomings. 

Can you see what I see to-beoming in the view from my porch?  From my back door?  Go to www.worthworks.com and click on the link in my “How does your garden grow?” article on the left.

Steph (Who is enjoying the non-taxing non-physical labour of computer work for a change on this raining Friday)

Last night I had a dream that I had to cross a dark water guarded by a crocodile.  All I had to do to cross safely was make up a story, even a long sturdy sentence would do to see me across the dark water at the narrowest stretch.  The words, you see, were magic.  Each word fell down and became a strong safe step to carry me forward on my way, every paragraph a whole portage, every story an entire day’s passage. 

But I couldn’t do it.  Swinging above the water with the croc below snapping at me I would get out a few words of a sentence and then the solid steps would fall into the water and the croc would leap up at me as I swung back to the starting shore.  Again and again and again I tried, though I knew from the beginning if it was words that were what I needed to fuel my passage I was done for before I started, for words have always been the missing treasure in my trove. 

Years past I had so many stories to tell, by jeez!!!  They was comin’ outta ev’rywhere!!!  Alright now.  Put yer hand up if ya heard the East Coast Canadian in me thar, b’y.  I’ve no idea where the gators and crocodiles in my dreams come from, but they’ve always been around to tell me something important.  They tell me when I’m afraid, deep down afraid of losing someone or something, or even some way of living. 

Last night’s dream was about my distress over losing my stories.  I was about 40,000 words into a book when the well of ‘wordage’ dried up completely.  That is a VERY distressful occurrance.  I finally had to put the whole project away for the time being since nothing whatever would get the flow of words going again.  Writers need to put things aside sometimes, but this time it was something I can’t afford to leave unfinished.  It’s a tale too important not to tell. 

Gail Kavanaugh at www.gailkav.wordpress.com is doing a beautiful job of what I’m doing a terrible job - no - what I’m actually not doing any job of doing.  She’s respecting the fact that the butcher, the baker, and the candlestickmaker all likely had lives filled with stories of the sort of humanness that would keep more than a few of us entranced for quite some time. 

I am a stubborn-minded writer who can’t get it into her head that her stories aren’t supposed to begin with “once upon a time”; they all naturally begin with “Last night I had a dream…”

Steph

That seems to be the way of Me.  I am here for a while, and then I retreat.  It is not an insult to you, to the world around me.  It is a survival thing.  I cannot explain it fully, not even to myself, and feel no compulsion to try today, so I will simply follow the instructions in the title and Continue.

Continuing on from December (now April…Spring has sprung) I am attempting to re-engage myself with the world around me.  Little by little.  Bear with me patiently, friends, as I don’t think I went into hibernation properly.  It was a blur.  I don’t recall what I brought with me.  Whether I gathered nuts or went nuts, for instance, or whether I stocked up on the right kind of sustenance for my peculiar species, though I assure you I managed to put on the winter fat a-plenty.  I did not shiver for want of an insulating layer, oh no.  *rueful grin* 

Now that it is Spring, I have been poking about the corners of my lair wanting to take full advantage of what I have been graced with as “home”.  I have raked and dug and pushed and pulled and scraped and scratched a few things into some order, holding some future promise of prettiness.  If nothing dies.  And if the grass seed takes.  We’ll see.

I am an agony of knotted muscles and pinched nerves for my efforts today, but the last week in the sun, in the garden, in the good earth, (well…the Hamilton earth shot through with broken concrete and bits of broken glass) have turned my skin brown and freckled, my brownish hair turning lighter and lighter, revealing my Scandinavian ancestry.  The essence of everything is being uncovered, no?

The essence of survival, then, is to return.  Simply return.  Re-turn.  Turn, and turn again.  Keep turning.  One of the best lines from one of the best songs: “We have travelled for years now, baby, just to get back to a place we had already found…” by Vonda Sheppard off the Ally McBeal soundtrack.  Surviving.

Like Steph.