March 22, 2013. I have chosen my book writing spot, a sort of cave filled with thriving houseplants and spring desert sunshine. This south room of my house has been lying dormant, available for use by an occasional guest while it remains home to blooming scarlet and gentle pink geraniums and lavender violets. Someone discarded a battered and rusty folding card table by one of our town’s recycling bins. It’s in my writing room covered with a sun bleached cloth now waiting for me to move my old laptop in there.
I wouldn’t think I needed a room of seclusion to write in while I live alone in this house. But I do. Maybe there is a collection of words gathered in there. I will find them.
Lonely work must require the quietest of spaces where only muses visit to bring words confined now to no eyes but mine. There’s no internet access in that room. No distracting myself now as this blog becomes quieter and quieter.
From that room I will watch the sunlight of spring unfolding new leaves and flower buds out in my garden. Starts are putting out tiny roots as nearly wild roses, carefully tended, decide if they are going to live or die in their little pots lining my window sills. If they grow I will give them away to a lady who sells plants at the Saturday Farmers’ Market. I sure don’t need any more rose bushes in my yard. Twenty two of them are enough for me, all of them climbers.
In this room only my clucking hens will awaken me to ongoing life as I write and as they lay their daily eggs. In that room I will write of memories. Intangible memories that may hold weight to nobody but me. What I intend to say is beyond argument or commentary from anyone. The rest of the world is busy elsewhere.
Such a big, wide world. Open to billions of choices, each with their own story attached should anyone pause long enough to notice, to write them down, or tell them to self and to other.
We are a communicative species among all the rest. Are we the only ones who take our stories that one step further outside of sound to capture them silently in words? I think so. Pack rats of the mind we are.
Words. Written words scurry into the past in a line as I reach ever forward into my own past toward the next word. And the next. Heart beat after heart beat.
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