“I’m going out for a while. If the baby wakes up fussy, someone just pick her up and love her.” her mother said to a group—some friends, some acquaintances, some strangers. The words have been playing over in my mind. The most simple, most considerate request a mother could make.
“Just love her.”
Why do we ever make life more complicated than that?
I, Sabrina, have been adventuring all about this summer. My writing has been slim and insignificant while my eyes and mind and skin have been prickled by the rains and winds of the Appalachian forest, the high tops of the mountains of the East Coast, and the serene sunset over the countryside of Maine. I have much to think about, much to write about, and much to remember. Here’s to summertime wandering….
Four men stood in a circle on the side of a street on a sunny morning. The little town was just starting to go to work. I drove by quietly on my way to my appointment. They were all looking down.
“I think it’s a hole,” Joe said.
“Well…that’s what a hole looks like to me,” responded Jeff.
One man stood silent but nodded his head.
Larry chimed in, “Ya’ know, that’s a hole if I ever saw one.”
All four men mumbled in agreement.
An hour passed, and I made my way back home. Four men stood in a circle on the side of the street looking down.
“I’d say it’s a pretty deep hole, if you ask me.”
An open book, an open page. Turning each leaf carefully and with slow concentration. I don’t know how this story ends, but I want to.
Lost. Lost as a bird egg fallen from the height of limbs. Lost as sweet honey bees with no flower. A hundred riddles in my mind and no guess of reason. What are the chances of finding complacency again? Perhaps I’ll find it there, sitting on a different bench. Outside there are answers under every piece of shredded bark. The water whispers gentleness and the leaves echo calm. The grass sparkles like a field of diamonds. The world makes sense in the sun.
How do you write a good story? —Something that matters to someone and captivates people’s hearts. What is it that separates paperbacks from legends? Who are these few special souls that uncover the New out of billions of grains of sand on forgotten beaches? How many conflicts can this world sustain? How many made up worlds, movies, plays may be written before every scene is just a rehearsing of old?
I do not know what captures our attention, be it places of fantasy or alluring characters or dramatic action we secretly wish for in our own mundane lives. There must be something more. Perhaps it is simply the fact that written stories only last 300 pages, whereas ours last a whole life and lose our attention long before the credits.
I believe there is only one true story, and a thousand different ways to tell it. Can I create way one-thousand and one? Can I imagine a new color or make a new leaf? I do not know I have such skill.
I could not make a new leaf even if you gave me more time than the end of the world.
It was night, and we drove out to the lake. The pathway was almost invisible, but every so often headlights from passing cars would illuminate it. The clouds hung above with a heavy weight. Our path stretched out to the right, but we continued onward—straight on to the edge of the shore. Straight onto the water until we were in the middle of it. Standing on it. As if there was an invisible barrier, my feet stood on level ground with the water and remained dry. The lake would blow no farther. “Thus far you shall come, but no farther; And here shall your proud waves stop.”
There was no moon. Lights in the distance reflected themselves from the deepest corners, making the water depths glow. There was a hundred, thousand, million ripples across miles of water, and we stood at the edge as just two—lost in the inconsequence of ourselves. What a sight it must have been for the stars that could see below.