Veer off the two-lane highway and you’ll find a quieter road. It was the original path of old-time island travel, now kind of forgotten, lined in tall grasses, with a faded yellow line.
On this road there are two driveways that run parallel. Go to the right and you’re back in time 11 years ago. There, a 29-year old woman lives in a school bus up on blocks. She’s tending a garden with marigolds and basil. Hanging prayer flags above the driver’s window. Wondering if her boyfriend will return from India and want to keep playing house.
Nine months later, her boyfriend is back. They’ve built a screened in porch and attached it to the school bus. Spent a hard-earned $500 on a king size mattress that rests upon a handmade frame. Baby clothes are laundered and waiting in the corner. Candles are placed on the window sill. They’re going to have a baby and she wants to have the birth right there at home.
Go back to those driveways running side by side. The ones separated by a hibiscus hedge twenty feet tall. This time, go to the left. It’s ten years later. That same woman is planting kale in a different garden bed. She’s forty now. She can hear her ten-year old humming from the treehouse, hidden from view, but somewhere perched between blue sky and ground.
The boyfriend, who is his father, is just that. The young boy’s dad is the man that gave her a dream come true, then moved along to find his own. She had other dreams, as well. And one of them is near the mint turning over a new plot. Her husband, her truest love, adds rich compost to the overturned soil and readies it for planting.
Ten years ago today, at 11:07am, a fragile, wet and perfect soul was placed upon my chest with parted lips and curling fingers. Today marks the day that Jeb was born.
Ten years ago, I lived next door to the very house where I now reside. I was a young mother, nursing in a school-bus-of-a-home, watching my baby grow. Today, we live in a house with bedrooms and indoor plumbing. I am married. I have a family. And my ten-year old son and I can wear the same size shoe.
Should I take it as a sign, when after a rather long pause in posting to the Archives, I come to the keyboard to discover that the internet is glitching?
I woke before 4am this morning, brewed my coffee (might I add that my stove top espresso maker was actually whining, as if it was out of practice at such an early hour), lit the sandalwood incense, and sat down in my writing chair. I was all ready to move back into the routine after a much-needed hiatus that has entailed a bit of travel, some big to-do lists, philosophical ponderings on the nature of creativity and discipline, and, most indulgent of all – sleep.
Refreshed but a bit rusty, I returned here to find that I only have the capacity to write for myself this morning. Though the internet says I’m connected, no webpages will load. Resetting the modem makes no difference.
Not wanting to waste a cup of coffee or a stick of incense, I type here as if anyone may read. As if anyone may care.
And I don’t write that last line as an Eeyore (reference “Winnie the Pooh“, as needed). It’s a genuine consideration, articulated well in a piece I read a few months ago on WordPress (which for the life of me, I can no longer find in order to rightly credit the author- my apologies). The post touched on the question of what’s worth writing about, as she had recently fielded a comment by one of her readers that brusquely asked/stated, “Who the fuck cares?”
After reading her candid recounting of the experience receiving this kind of feedback, I was heartened to see that I was not alone in wondering what really ‘matters’ to the reader and what is truly ‘worth’ writing about.
In this last month, amidst traveling, a long school holiday, and some practical matters on my desk (yes, the warmth of the bed, post-4am, was nice, as well), the who-cares-consideration took on a new angle. I rebelled in the month of November when bloggers everywhere dedicated to a post a day. I stopped posting altogether, as I searched for that inner spark. The one filled with urgency, insisting that critical words be potently put to page.
I found myself refusing to type just for typing-sake, then questioned the motives of my own rebellion, wondering if my mind was simply finding a clever way to sidestep writing discipline. Perhaps I was being tricked by my own self, but I continued puzzling on the question like a Rubik’s cube: “Who the f*%$# cares?”
Show don’t tell. As a writer, I’m not supposed to tell you what matters. You want to be shown the way to caring.
Well, what do I care about?
Sometimes when I go on vacation, I’ll purposely leave my camera in my suitcase. On that day, I want to have a full experience without documenting. I want to lose myself in life’s movie. I don’t want to set one foot outside the frame to distance myself as the observer.
Other times, being the documentarian becomes part of the experience, and I have some great snapshots to send home.
These last few weeks have found me living solely in the feature frame. Looking back, I only have a collage of fleeting images that could possibly be sent as postcards back to friends.
A sunset ferris wheel ride overlooking downtown Chicago.
Sliding my arms into my soon-to-be-10-years-old’s sweatshirt and realizing it fits.
Vanilla ice cream melting over warm ginger and cinnamon-scented apple crisp.
3am, booming thunder, flashing lightning, and seven inches of rain.
A quiet, one-year wedding anniversary with the Bohemian and a pot of thick, mushroom soup.
Are any of these stills worth stamping and sending off?
I’m not sure exactly why or how these snapshots matter, though I have a sense they do. And there’s more to say on the back of these postcards than “wish you were here.” More than just a telling of them to you.
Though these may be ‘my’ moments, I believe they are meant to be shared. Somewhere buried in the details of the setting, the time and place, there is a common thread that transcends all that is mine or yours. It’s a place that belongs to everyone and no one. It’s the place where you and I can meet.
If I show you in just the right way, we can be in that place together.
And, I guess for me, that’s really what I care about.
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