moments in a library

I sat in a chair, in a beam of sunlight, in a room full of tall windows.  The orange sunlight of early evening shone through the orange, yellow, and red leaves of the tree outside making it look like a stained glass window.  Or stained glass windows are made to look like sunshine through autumn leaves. 

For a small public library in a small island town there were many people milling around.  I wondered where it was they were not going.  Why were they here instead? 

The man there, reading the newspaper, was he just biding time till something else?  The woman in the boho dress and Ugg style boots that I caught inspecting the pattern on her own sleeve, she didn't seem to be fully engrossed in this moment, was her mind elsewhere?  The older woman who pulled out some purple knitting from her tote bag and set to work, why did she choose to knit here, in the little library, in the little island town?  Another woman walked to her, beginning a conversation from a few strides away, without hesitation or apology or invitation pulling the nearest chair over, creating a ninety degree angle between them both.

If someone were to set eyes on me in that moment they would have seen a tired woman, laptop open in front of her, listening to something through earbuds connected to the cell phone at her side.  Her hair disheveled, eyes framed in worry as she occasionally sighed and looked up from her glowing screen, gazing out the window, lost in thought.

My mind in those moments was wandering the streets of delusions, paranoia, organized crime, family responsibility, and the fine line between what a mind can believe is truth and actual truth.  And again, my sensitive heart feels everything on a deeper level so I'm stricken with worry.  There is a struggle in the mind that can be easily dismissed by lack of compassion or understanding.  But I understand.  I understand the darkness that blurs reality.  I know that it can become massive and overpowering, and perhaps I only understand a fraction of it through personal experience but I know enough to not be able to dismiss it.

Little libraries in little towns close mighty early.  I packed up my things, took one last look around, and headed for the door.  Outside the air was crisp, the sun fading.  Autumn is in full glory in the Pacific Northwest. 

fading garden

 

 

The garden is making her descent.  I've all but left it to itself now, weeds growing abundantly, tomato plants growing haphazardly, zucchini plants yellowed and wilted but still taking up space.  It's just a matter of time and I will be in there pulling out dead sunflower plants, ripping out the pumpkin vines.  But still, when I take the time to see, to really see, there is beauty in the fading.

 

The sweet pea vines are green, leaves open to catching raindrops and putting them on display.

 

 

Pods hang, ready to be picked.  They are sweet and crunchy at this stage.

 

 

Some of the flower seeds I had planted are showing forth in vibrant color.

The contrast of this delicate pink flower with the wilted sunflower leaves captures perfectly what I wanted to convey.  The garden is almost spent but still there is life.

 

Adding to the swift dismissal of the gardening season is the fact that I can't keep one smart chicken out of the garden.  Nuggets is the only hen that knows how to jump the little garden fence and she wanders around in there munching on the collard green leaves, leaving behind evidences of her visit, such as a soft feather that dances in the slightest breeze.

 

 

The last sunflowers are not near as bright and lively as the first.

But they are still beautiful in their fading.

 

in early September

It was a Friday in early September.  Leaves just turning.  Air just beginning to feel thinner, cooler.  The boys were both in school for the first time in the history of us.  He wanted to get in some salmon fishing.  I tagged along.  The beach is beautiful.  And there is hiking.  And the sun was shining.

 

I hiked along a trail in the woods just off the beach and found spider webs abounding.  Each delicate web was filled with tiny drops of water.  They looked like little bits of lace decorating the bushes.

 

 

 

As I trod along the worn trail, I breathe deeply.  There is a scent in the woods that is hard to describe.  It is the decay on the forest floor, the leaves and tree needles mingling together as they are broken down by insects, rain, and heat, by the cycle of nighttime to day.  I love that smell.  I love how it all fits together, the symbiosis in creation. 

Back at the beach... I found this bit of moss.  It's complexity demanded to be captured.  I like it's texture contrasted by the grayed driftwood. 

 

 

I laid in the sun on the warm rocks and listened to the waves sweeping in and out.  The tide crept closer to where I lay and I eventually had to scoot away a few more feet.  I hooked Charlie to my foot and laughed out loud when I caught sight of him.

 

That's an interesting way to wear your leash, Charlie!

 

I want to write

I want to write.

I want words to flow from my pen and cover line and pages and fill notebooks.

I want to sit in coffee shops with blank pages before me, unaware of the sounds about me, only focused on pen at paper, releasing the words of my heart.

I want to be a regular at the used bookstore, visiting old friends, meeting new.  Smelling the exhalations of the worn stories, gently fingering their worn bindings.

I want to sweep into the library and borrow a gem that inspires the flame within my soul, urging me forward, fostering creativity.

I want to stroll on the beach sometime near mid-day rolling over words and phrases in my mind like the waves roll the pebbles on the shore.

I want to hole up inside on a rainy day with hot coffee and my warm little dog and pour out words as tears, slowly at first then from that place deep within that, when opened, gushes forth like a fountain.

I want to write but I don't, because I haven't found the story that demands to be told.

I have not uncovered those characters  hidden in my creativity bank that beg to be sculpted into a book.

I have not amassed some great amount of knowledge and wisdom to share and make everyone's lives better.

I feel that the world doesn't really need me to write at all.  Everything has already been said in many different voices.  What weight does my voice have?

No, the world doesn't need me to write.

But I need me to write. 

There is a part of me that craves it, like the instinct to breathe.  I need to write like I need to breathe.  And perhaps in simply writing, courageously venturing forward hand-in-hand with my creative side, I will stumble upon something wonderful.