Portland: The Traveling Man’s Gift

From our trip in late April, a memorable moment has also been a sort of preoccupation since then. It started with an act of passionate kindness. I didn’t know how long it would take me. There it lay, unopened on a crowded shelf calling my name.

During our travels to Portland, Oregon, we visited one of the local wine bars a few times in between our other activities. From the outside, looking into the wine bar’s large window, we were immediately drawn into this cozy bistro. A few small round tables were set in the small front area looking out of the tall floor to ceiling window. There was one open table.

On this afternoon, we wanted to sit at the bar, so we walked down to the other side of the 8-seater bar to see if there were two open seats. We saw one empty stool at the end and one man standing next to it, hovering over his own empty stool. He saw us and offered up his empty chair for me to sit in and my significant other took the chair on the end. I took note that the man had a traveling look about him. He looked casual with long hair pulled loosely back, ruddy face, and a backpack. He reminded me of a man who has been traveling all his life. I pictured him out in the woods with a walking stick, windswept, the elements about him, dust, and hot sun.

The servers were busy. We recognized one from the other night. She was a friendly and helpful woman. She had fair skin with lovely freckles and strawberry blonde hair and always ready with a smile. We placed our order. The traveling man was drinking a beer. Our wine arrived. We sipped it and then the traveling man said, “if you don’t mind me asking, are you from around here?”

“I was just going to ask you the same thing,” I said, with a tinge of excitement in my voice.

He laughed and said something funny; the ice was broken.

I smiled wide. My significant other said that we were from the San Francisco area. That’s usually easier to visualize geographically than the East Bay or so we assume.

“Business or pleasure,” he said.

“Pleasure.” We all looked at each other, clinked glasses and bottles with our eyes.

There’s a dog in the bar. I assume he’s with the traveling man and don’t ask.

We continue chit chatting with the traveling man. I order a plate of cheese and crackers, nibbling in between sips of wine, in between watching the surrounding patrons, everyone talking, the servers going down the bar from left to right, keeping the glasses filled and also going out to the floor to serve the patrons there.

I look down at the dog from time to time and smile. I think he’s a schnauzer. I give him a pat on the head. He looks like he wants a treat.

The traveling man and my significant other spoke about a variety of things: sports, travel, California, Portland. I was sandwiched in between, mostly listening and also trailing off, staring out the large windows, watching people walk by, watching the sun dip in and out of the clouds, causing the wine bar to go from dim to bright. I turned to the dog and smiled. He was patient while his owner enjoyed himself. I looked over at the wine bottles on the shelves, noting the interesting labels.

I heard the traveling man and my significant other talk about Monterey and Carmel and the traveling man looked to me to be sure he was pronouncing Monterey correctly. He said that he had trouble with certain words—maybe words that had Spanish roots. I asked him where he was from. He paused a moment and if my memory serves me he said he was originally from Germany, but he had joined the service and had traveled around as a result. I believe he then lived in the mid-west for a time and now his parents live in Portland and this was now home for him—he was possibly in his mid to late fifties.

The bar is full. By the sounds of the chatter and laughter, everyone is having a good time. The buzz of the conversation makes my head spin in a good way. I feel enveloped by the good cheer and the friendly vibe that we’ve felt during our short stay in Portland.

The traveling man drank the last swig of his beer and he looked as though he was readying to leave. He turned to us and asked our names before parting. My significant other said his and then I said mine and when I did, you would have thought the man was going to pee his pants. He brought his hand to his mouth and made a squeal and said, “Ohhhh.” He paused and needed a moment to compose himself. “I think I’ve got something for you, he said” with total excitement in his voice.

My significant other and I wondered in a cautious but curious way. What on earth could it be? The man still couldn’t get a hold of himself. He reached down for his backpack and propped it up on the chair. “I hope I have it in here,” he said. He rummaged through his backpack with his nose practically inside. He looked from us to the inside of his bag. Finally, he produced a small and slender brown sack. He slowly took out the contents and handed me the movie, Rebecca. I looked at it and said, “Ah, I haven’t seen it, but a friend told me once that I should,” and then I added, “but my name is spelled with two b’s.” He made a sound as though I had wounded him. I recovered quickly, “That’s ok, it’s still my name.”  I didn’t want to ruin the moment for him. He was able to get back into his excitement as thought I hadn’t uttered a word about the spelling of my name.

He zipped up his bag. The movie still in my hand, I look to him. “Are you sure,” I say.

“We don’t want to take your treasures,” my significant other says.

“I want you to have it. I have others on order.”

“Thank you very much,” I say.

He looked at us one last time. We shook hands and said our goodbyes.

This quick parting and the coincidence of it all made me speechless.  I didn’t have time to ask questions about why he loved this movie and why he had so many on order and how often did he run into women whose names were Rebecca. There were so many questions that flooded my mind only after he left, and maybe it was meant to be this way. He was set to leave after all and the name exchange occurred at the end. The traveling man was gone.

I still had the movie in my hand. I flipped it over and read the back, then set it on top of the counter gazing at it occasionally. My significant other and I agreed this was an interesting coincidence. He had moved into the traveling man’s seat where I was now the caboose of this wine train. I took a sip of my wine and noticed the dog was still there. I had assumed the dog and the traveling man were together.

The man to my significant other’s right was clean cut and shaven. He had short blond hair and wore a stylish leather jacket. He was with a friend and apparently his dog.

I was feeling good about where I was. We were enjoying ourselves amongst other metaphorical fellow travelers. I was the observer. Notebook in hand if something should jump out at me; mostly, I listened and watched. My significant other and the blond man with the dog seemed to become instant buddies for those moments in the wine bar. I saw the blond man push over his glass of wine, give my significant other a friendly nudge on his arm and say, “try that.” After my significant other took a sip, the blond man asked,

“What do you think?”

“It’s drinkable, not my favorite.”

“I don’t like it.” The blond man had a puckered look on his face as though he had sucked a lemon.

The man to the right of the blond man—his friend—had a European accent and he was clearly a wine connoisseur with a very different palate than his friend. He also had a loud forceful voice. The blond man tasted another wine from the flight he had ordered. He seemed to like this one whereas his companion did not. This one he also pushed over to my significant other to taste from his glass. The blond man said, “it smells like dirt, but it tastes great.” I chuckled. My significant other agreed about the blond man’s assessment. They continued sharing their thoughts on the wines amongst a variety of other miscellaneous conversation and when there was a long pause. I asked the man what his dog’s name was. “Tiernen,” he said. I wanted to ask more questions about the dog’s name. How had he settled on that name? Was it the name of a character from some great novel? Does his dog come to the wine bar often? I didn’t ask. I gave the dog another pat on the head. His master gave the dog a few treats. I think it was close to being Tiernen’s dinnertime.

Time had passed unnoticed from the moment we stepped into the wine bar. The bar was at its dimmest; nightfall was upon us. It was almost dinnertime. We drank up the last of our wine. We were having such a good time, tasting, talking, laughing. I don’t remember if we exchanged names with the blond man. We said goodbye, waved to the server as we stepped out and down the street we went in search of dinner.

After being home from Portland, as the days edged on, I became more and more curious about Rebecca. I searched for the book in the library catalog. I have long known of the movie and may not have been aware of the book. I really had no intention all these years of reading the book let alone watch the movie. Why, I’m not sure. After reading about the author, Daphne Du Maurier, and learning about the style of the book, and what the story was about, I knew that before I watched the movie, I must first read the book. The opening lines sucked me right into the book. I was taken. At first, though, I read it in short spurts and then the desire to watch the movie grew and as the book progressed, I wanted to be with the book for longer periods—I wanted to finish it— and since it’s only about 400 pages, it didn’t take me long.

I finished the book on the last day of June. I wanted so much to finish it the night before, but my eyes would not stay open. My plan was to watch the movie immediately after. The following morning I did finish the book. I loved everything about it, the writing, the setting, the characters, and the psychological depth of Du Maurier. And so that same morning I put my disk into my laptop, put my headphones on and watched the movie with full attention. I was not disappointed. There were some alterations and cuts, but the movie unfolded just like the book. I felt as though I was watching the book come to life and I enjoyed both equally.

If not for the traveling man, I most likely would not have read or watched Rebecca. It has made me want to read more of Du Murier’s work, especially her short stories. It seems as though she was an under appreciated author in her time. She deals with the darker elements of the human psyche, and as with Rebecca, it seems natural territory for her. I have one of her collections on hold from the library and the cover alone frightens me. In this particular collection, she may delve even deeper. 

My desire to finish the book and watch the movie was propelled by meeting this man—the traveling man. I’ll never know exactly what Rebecca meant to him, not the specifics anyway. I was moved by his passion and it became a sort-of mini obsession for me to read the book and see the movie. I often leave books, come back to them later, but it was different with this one. I had the man in my mind. I wanted to see this world that he carried around with him in his backpack and that he shared with me. I’ll probably always remember that moment in the wine bar because it was unique and it felt like a strange fairy tale, and synchronistic moments like this are what make travel and life interesting. For this, I thank you, dear traveling man, wherever you are, and perhaps our paths may cross again one day.

The Personal Essay ~ A Multitude of Containers

It’s interesting for me to step back and examine my writing progression. I read an essay this morning that I wrote in the spring of 2006 for a Stress and Human Health class. The title of the paper is “Behavior Modification: Toward Self-Empowerment.” It’s about four pages, double-spaced. I can tell right where I was in spirit and mind by the metaphor I used throughout the paper. It was a different chapter of my life, with different characters, different setting—a chapter now in time and space. I feel that at some point I will post the essay as a blog, after some edits.

At this same juncture in my life, which wasn’t all that long ago, I remember one of my instructors—may she RIP—I remember her kindness and openness of mind. I remember being inspired that she was still teaching. She must have been in her late seventies, possibly her eighties. I didn’t often raise my hand in class. I would want to say something, but my heart would thump, my palms would get moist, and a lump would form in my throat rising to a dry mouth. The anxiety would set in—all this because I was imagining myself speaking up—I would become unable to follow through. This happened each time I wanted to contribute, but I couldn’t push past it.

Her name was Mary and one thing she did differently in this one class was to have us write her a final letter stating what grade we thought we should receive and why. Besides my participation, I thought that the work that I did in the class merited an “A.” When I received my letter back, she had given me a “B” because I had not participated in class discussions. I accepted it. She was right. I respected that she gave me the “B” and not the “A.” I’m appreciative that she planted a seed. She told me that I had things to share and others may benefit and/or be able to add on to the discussion from there, that I shouldn’t hold back.

Later when I took another class she taught, she met with each student one on one. I told her how much I loved writing and that’s what I saw in my future. I imagined it differently then, but I’m doing it now, not solely in my personal journals, but by putting myself out there. I told her writing was my way of sharing. It’s the element I felt comfortable in and at home in. She smiled deeply and wished me luck.

I think of Mary from time to time because she was kind and generous. She was excited and passionate about what she taught and she took the time to know her students, if even a little bit.

What’s interesting about writing essays in class for an instructor is you have a set audience of one and a proposed topic, but I can tell by what I wrote in several essays across different classes is that I also wrote for people—for anyone that may find something to relate to—a way to see themselves reflected back.

Presently, there are certain pieces that may be strictly personal. I still post them because that’s part of me, part of my world. And there are others, where like today, I have a thought, I open an old essay to read, it brings me back to Mary, to a small slice of my road and then I follow where the words lead me. This morning I was going to work on a recent piece that I wrote. It needs a little work and if I still have time this morning, I’m going to look at it.

Writing blogs has changed the way I approach writing. I don’t always have a set focus or plan. There is less structure. Speaking of structure. That makes me think of an English class I took a long time ago at the community college. I was explaining to the instructor why I had written the essay as I had, that I didn’t want to be confined by the structure; I wanted to find my own container.

Containers are fascinating. A little over a year ago I picked up a book called The Art of the Personal Essay: An Anthology from the Classical Era to the Present selected and with an introduction by Phillip Lopate. When I bought it I read the introduction and the first few essays. I put it back on the shelf. A week ago or so I picked it back out of the shelf and thumbed through it. I happened on G. K. Chesterton. The book has two of his essays and the one that I loved is called “A Piece of Chalk.” It’s not a long essay, three pages in this book. What he does in three pages with his imagination, imagery, and wanderings is so very satisfying.

I also recently downloaded a book to my Kindle called Crafting The Personal Essay: A Guide for Writing and Publishing Creative Non-Fiction by Dinty W. Moore. What I appreciate most about this book is that Moore breaks the book down into various types of essays.

Moore sees the essay as “The gentle art,” and expands in answer to his question of what is an essay? “The personal essay is, of course personal, meaning of you, from your unique point-of-view. And it is an “assay,” derived from a French word meaning “to try” or “to attempt” (Kindle pg. 5)

Books about writing have always been a source of reading enjoyment for me. I have a small bookshelf that I go to now and again. The essays I remember from school were different, not as personal, though a few were because of the nature of the classes. Out of all the writing courses that I’ve taken, one that I gained much from, but that I did not have an interest in pursuing was the journalism feature-writing course. I know my voice; I can hear it and depending on who or what I’m writing about, and my moods, the musical notes may change, but I’m still there. When I wrote my feature pieces for class, my voice seemed to go away. It felt for me that the container was much too rigid. I wouldn’t want to write for a paper or magazine because of the loss of freedom. I’m happy writing and sharing on my blog.

Moore goes on to say, “Here the essence of the form is found: The personal essayist (that would be you) takes a topic—virtually any topic under the yellow sun—and holds it up to the bright light, turning it this way and that, upside and down, studying every perspective, fault, and reflection, in an artful attempt to perceive something fresh and significant. But it is always an effort, a trial, not a lecture or diatribe. The essayist does not sit down at her desk already knowing all the right answers, because if she did, there would be no reason to write” (Kindle pg. 5).

This also makes me reconsider how I view the essay or any other writing. Rather than think of the essay as a label, I can think of it as a container with many possibilities, roads, turnoffs, signals. This to me is more liberating. I also realize that the more containers that I expose myself to, the more that I keep following myself on the page, the more that I see and appreciate the organic-ness of the process. Often times I have no destination. I explore the whites space on the page, pave small roads, plant flower beds, try to figure out what I’m doing or thinking for those moments the light is on. It always feels different. I don’t always know where I’ll end up, and I like that.

This morning for example, I headed out and took a turn. My mind began recalling experiences and though I didn’t know they would fit snug, I followed and then on and on. This has been the way I write when I come to the page. I do my personal morning pages to get the fuzz out. Then I sit for a moment. I power up the laptop and I start typing with whatever idea or thought is there. This morning though I had other pieces on my mind, one that began as a free write a few weeks back to get the thoughts out and the other I mentioned. One is typed up and one still has to come out from the notebook to the typed page. And then that brought me to look for an essay that related to my free write. I looked through the folders on the computer and when I saw a different essay and read it, it was the seed that got my thoughts in motion.

Yes, I’m coming to appreciate the essay container from a whole different perspective. As Moore shares in his book, this is what Annie Dillard has said about the essay form:

“There’s nothing you cannot do with it; no subject matter is forbidden, no structure is proscribed. You get to make up your own structure every time, a structure that arises from the materials and best contains them. The material is the world itself, which, so far, keeps on keeping on” (Kindle pg. 6).

I think back on the English class—the one I mentioned where I wanted to find my own container, to break out of the confines of the basic structure of a college composition course. I wanted to wander. The essay does allow that. My instincts were right and I’m glad to be following wherever the moment leads.

Sometimes we need containers to break out of containers.

Tarot Card for Keiko

VIII Trumps – Adjustment

“The principle of balance: Justice/Realignment”

Keiko, In the photo of the card, the little bit of red in the background is the cloth that I spread the cards out on. I shuffled the deck and thought of you and asked for a card just for you.

From Tarot: Mirror of the Soul (Handbook for the Aleister Crowley Tarot) by Gerd Ziegler:

“This card portrays the sign of Libra. It is a fascinating picture of balance. A young woman (the feminine aspect of the fool), holds the great magic sword between her legs and balances on her toes…Only absolute concentration and stillness, which come from finding one’s inner center, will allow this condition of equilibrium to take place. The slightest distracting thought will cause her to waver and destroy the balance she has found, the balance that is the nature of the universe.”

“The predominant colors are blue and green. Blue is the color of spiritual and intellectual powers, such as thinking, ideas, wisdom; green is the color of creativity, the power to put ideas into action. The downward-pointing sword lends a similar meaning. The powers of thought are directed toward, and put into contact with, the earth, and serve her.”

“This card is a summons to avoid all extremes in your daily life.”

From The Tarot Book by Angeles Arrien:

This first interpretive quote below shares similar qualities to the second quote above. You can see how each author/interpreter hone in on different symbols, reaching a shared interpretation of the card.

“The perfectly shaped circles or balloon are symbols representing formulated ideas or thoughts. This is the interesting balancing and synthesizing mind which is often expressed through writing, research, and design. …Here the Ace of Swords is facing downward, symbolizing the application of creative ideas in tangible, useful ways. The Ace of Swords in its own card represents the inspired, creative, and original mind. Within this symbol, the Ace of Swords (the creative mind) is being directly applied and brought to earth in realistic and practical ways.”

You will also notice, as pointed out in Arrien’s book that the symbols within the scales are Alpha, representing beginnings, and Omega (symbolizing endings or completions). She goes on to say, “The principle of balance requires that whatever is initiated or begun (Alpha) must be completed at some time (Omega).

To conclude with are Arrien’s words about the card:

“Basically, it is important for you to simplify and balance that which is out of balance or chaotic in your life. It is a time where you desire and achieve clarity on important issues that you have been considering.”

**

Keiko, I hope that you were able to find something in this card, chosen for you—and by you from your intuition to mine and back to yours. And if not, that is fine too. The card is visually very interesting to me. It has an air of mystery. I like the blues and greens and how the background is bright, like light shining through. There is much to see in this card. I will let you gaze at the card and see how you feel.

Ah, the masked face…it represents “all her attention being turned inward. This makes her receptive to ideas and direction from her inner guide” (Ziegler).

I would love to hear what you think, Keiko, whether here on the blog or on email.

Rebb

Tarot Card – Fortune

Tarot Card – Fortune

“The principle of opportunity, breakthrough and prosperity.”

I gaze at this card, lose myself as I swim in the purple ocean amongst a grand display of fireworks of lavender and tangerine—swirls, and lightening bolts splayed out to bright stars—and there in the center, the wheel of fortune, sun in its center, guided by the Sphinx, Monkey, and Crocodile. I am there in the purple sea, looking outward from within the great wheel of fortune. I spin and explode inside and feel the millions of stars inside of me spilling out like confetti as I continue to swim and feel the lightness—of floating under the purple sky.

“This symbol reminds us that like the goddess Fortuna in Roman mythology that we can turn our lives in more fortunate and positive directions by being objective like the Sphinx, flexible like the monkey, and reaching for new opportunities and ways to express our creative power like the crocodile.”

When I flipped this card over this morning, I was immediately pleased to see before me movement, excitement, creativity—there to be seized upon with a watchful eye and willingness to move toward opportunities that present themselves. I needed this card today for its positive energy and light.

If you land here, I hope you too will feel the energy of this card.

**

I took a photo of the card and have displayed it here. The Tarot deck that I always use is the Aleister Crowley Thoth Tarot. The deck was designed by Crowley and painted by Frieda Harris. The deck is quite a beautiful collection of symbolism and artistry. 

Quotes are from The Tarot Handbook: Practical Applications of Ancient Visual Symbols by Angeles Arrien.

Evening Page ~ Dinner

Treated ourselves to a nice dinner last night.
Linguine carbonara and
pasta with seafood;
Clinking glasses filled with
Riesling and Pinot Grigio.
Apple galette a'la mode for dessert.


After dinner-- at the wine bar, we split a flight.
Already full, I reasoned with
my belly that there was still room for a small
plate of smoked pork risotto. I ate every
kernel on the plate, sipped wine, drank water,
let the music wash over me--
Filled beyond belief.

Self-Doubt ~ Thinking

It seems that there is a certain degree of self-doubt in the air. It makes me think of the many times I have experienced self-doubt; it makes me wonder what causes an individual to doubt themselves.

From time to time I reflect back on the times when I was seeing a student-therapist and he suggested that perhaps I had a fear of success, not failure, but of success. Back then I was the same person, but much more timid and I was very insecure. I had much more self-doubt. I think of his words from time to time and wonder if there could be truth in them for some people: The fear of success. I am forever grateful to him because, quite possibly without his assistance and nudging, I may not have re-signed up for community college courses, back in those beginning years. I may have continued doubting myself with a vengeance.

I feel as though I spent a great deal of my life in self-doubt and there are still moments it comes up. Mostly, I feel as though I've broken through certain self-barriers. On the one hand I can view my experience as both a blessing and a curse. It has taken me much longer to reach certain milestones because it seemed I was constantly rolling myself up a hill only to roll back down. On the other hand, if I had not rolled back down and brushed myself up and got going back up the hill, I don't know that I'd appreciate the present moment quite as much as I do.

I still stumble, but I feel better able to trust myself. After conquering one of my worst fears ever--public speaking--I've felt that I can do anything that I set my mind to. I know that may not seem like a big thing; it certainly was for me. With certain other life events, I've learned to embrace and act on the sayings that "life is too short" and "what do you have to lose?"

Our lives are each our own with very significant questions and decisions that only we can answer with help from our inner guides. It's comforting to know that we're not alone on our journeys. We may encounter a rocky road or perhaps it will be smooth. We won't know unless we try. If our passion is true in our hearts, souls, minds, and bodies, we know what we must do.

By moving past our fears and learning to trust ourselves, acknowledging the fears, yet being open and knowing that it's going to be alright, if we trust ourselves and listen to our guts, we won't lose ourselves in the process; we will still maintain our essence--this is what I believe.

Toddler Tales

“Look!” Ever since I can remember I’ve been a curious child. And when I am considered an “Old Woman,” I shall still be a curious child. I remember asking my older brother questions and this was before the Internet, and he would tell me to go look it up. I think he became tired of my questions. I don’t know that I had the proper tools to look things up at the time, but eventually I would.

I’ve exhausted some people with my constant need to point out little details of life, “Look! Look, at the tree, look at the flower. Look, look, look!” My feelings have been hurt at times because this type of wonder and curiosity can be exhausting for some and they let me know. I don’t hold it against them. I must respect our differences in how we appreciate life and in that constant need to look and share. I have learned to curb this enthusiasm when amongst certain individuals because it only leads to exhaustion and dejection. The enthusiasm is still there; it’s just that it becomes quieter with the spoken word. I admire from my quiet world, careful not to overwhelm. It’s an interesting quandary to want to be vocal about all the simple fascinations, but that’s where this blank page comes in handy. I know that I can tell the page what I’m thinking and seeing and it will either stay quiet or it may talk back. In some way, the blank page is comforting. It’s another way for me to say, “Look,” and to help me see what I see.

I’ve had this quote that I saved from my daily Zen Calendar. It speaks to me and it also in feels connected to this blog and the journal entry that follows that I had intended to blog when I wrote it up a few days back, but didn’t and now we’re upon a new month, so it seems fitting to tie it all together.

Stare. It is the way to educate your eye, and
more. Stare, pry, listen,
eavesdrop. Die knowing
something. You are not
here long.

—Walker Evans 

**

Toddler Tales

Digging in the “Sand”

Little A. Man, as I like to call him here on this page, is my significant other’s cousin’s boy. My significant other is also his Godfather. Little A. Man is two and a half years old. We see him from time to time, and during one point we saw him over several weekends because there were barbeques and other happenings all strung together. He was especially shy with me at first when he was much younger and I’m naturally shy myself, so there’s that. Over the recent weekend’s where he had more exposure to me, it was quite nice to enter Little A.’s world.

On one of these visits he wanted to go outside, so my significant other’s father took him and I decided to go along because I preferred the outside and playing to being inside. I went over to the small tree with loose dirt that was slightly dry and he was having such fun digging in the dirt. I was enjoying watching and running my fingers through the dirt too because this is second nature for me. And then he said, “Look Rebbecca.” He pointed at the tree. He seemed to want to be sure that I did not miss seeing this small tree right there. I believe it was a special tree that was a birthday gift from wife to husband that they dug up and brought to their new home. I am still flabbergasted that Little A. can say my name so well for a two and a half year old. I said, yes. A., what a nice tree. He dug some more, very intent on the task at hand. I saw a rolly polly bug and I said, “Look A.” He came to attention, “What is it?” he said. I took it in my hand and I said it’s a little bug. It’s a rolly polly.” The rolly polly began to unroll and then I put it back in the dirt. Later on A. saw it and said, “Look a bug.”

“Yes, you found the bug. A bug, yes,” I said.

When his grandmother and grandfather said goodbye from the other side of the gate, A. was too much in his world. He just wanted to dig. He was content.


Lego’s and Unicorns

Another time we went over to visit, A. was playing with his mother in his playroom. He had all of his animal toys out, his legos, and many other toys all spread around. He has a kitchen with a BBQ and microwave, fruits, vegetables, hamburger patties, all he needs to create a lovely picnic. I sat down and watched him and his mother play. I mostly watched and chit chatted with her. She had to get up to clear a space for where dinner would be set. I nibbled on plastic strawberries and A. called out each piece of food that he placed before me. Strawberry. Orange. Bread. Cheese. I repeated back and said, “Mmmm. Thank you.” When I didn’t understand that he was saying, “Turkey,” his strategy was to keep saying it louder and louder until he was practically screaming. I stopped saying “What” so that I could figure it out. It didn’t look like what it was and then the bulb flashed. I said to him, “Ohhh, Turkey.” And he said, “Yes.” He is a smart boy. He knows many words and seems to understand the concept of pretend. He tells stories and has quite an imagination. He knows when he’s funny and cute.

We were playing with Lego’s and then he handed me a strip of three red Lego’s and said, “unicorn.” I put the Lego’s to my forehead and said, “I’m a unicorn.”

“Yes, he said.” He smiled. He then put together another three red Lego’s and went to his mom and made her a unicorn too. “Thank you, Baby,” She said to him. He was happy. He sat back down and he continued building worlds with his Lego’s and saying out loud what he was creating and then he took his empty and dry bubble tray and he found his bubble wand and he said, “And pretend bubbles.” He blew pretend bubbles over his creation and he knew they were pretend.

I love the imagination of children. I have an imagination of my own—it’s called forth by nature—I always lose myself on a cloudy day. The last several days, in fact, have proven to be lovely cloud days. I could have tripped over my feet as I kept looking up at the clouds in the sky and the formations they made and where they took my imagination and the way the half moon shone. I wanted so badly to take a photo. I didn’t have any gadgets to snap that day. So I kept looking and I jotted a few memorable words in my notepad later, hoping that I will be able to weave a tale out of those clouds that I can still see in my mind’s eye, but that I will save for another day.  


Talking About It

On one of our last visits, I was off in the background in the TV room, but near enough to observe. Little A. was enjoying his time with his grandma, grandpa, mom and dad, having fun and telling stories. It was time for grandma and grandpa to go and A. didn’t want them to go. He was feeling upset and he slumped and he began to almost whine. His grandma said she would see him later in the week. He wasn’t appeased, so she sat down on the steps, put her hand out and lovingly said, “Do you want to talk about it. Come here, let’s talk about it.” He walked toward her, sat down by her side and she put her arm around him and said, “Let’s talk about it.” These very words seemed to calm him and she said, “You were having so much fun with grandma and grandpa, huh. And you don’t want us to go?”

“I don’t want you to go,” he said. He crinkled his feet, looking down, and looked sad, but her words gave him the acknowledgement that he seemed to need. “We’ll see you in a few days, baby, and we can play some more, OK? Give me a kiss.” He didn’t cry. He didn’t continue to almost whine, he felt better, but was still a little sad. He let her go though without out a fuss. “Talking about it” made all the difference.

Next time I saw his grandma at Father’s Day I told her how much I admired her strategy in asking, “Do you want to talk about it?” And she said with one of her own sons it was, “Let’s make a deal.” Her now grown son was there that day and remembered that yes he used to do that when she asked. She said that she actually tried this approach one day at her job. She is now retired. She had pitched something to one of her co-workers and when she could tell he wasn’t quite on board she reverted to this similar tactic and said to him, “Why don’t you take the weekend to think about it, Bob.” We both laughed when she related this story. She said after the weekend he actually had changed his mind.

No matter how I old I become, I will always be a child at heart. I can imagine from a distance how wonderful it is to bring life into this world, to feed the soul, and watch the growth.

And with writing: Blowing life onto the page, finding out by going in, taking what we see and exploring what it means to us—this form of birth—I imagine that that’s what many of us feel—with our relationship to words.