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Friday, July 20, 2012

Write With Me: The Scent of Boiling Shrimp and Dreams

As a writer, how do you handle the moments when life gets very full?

I wish I didn't but usually, usually, I cease writing. The dreaming, thinking, feeling, knowing, perusing, and hoping seduces me to wait until a time when I will be able to sit down and capture it all. But lately I've been concerned...maybe I should be taking better notes on this thing called life. Just physical details. Note the hands on the clock point to 12 and 3. The air carries a scent of grilled burgers. And wait, there's bay leaves and boiling shrimp, too. Above my head two ruby ad insect green hummingbirds circle each other and fly off into the valley of trees below.

My pen freezes. The moment has passed. Perhaps infused into my dreams?

The nuances of everyday are extremely intense when many circles of life collide. If I even could come up with an analogy I might say this feeling is like summer in our garden. The time when tomatoes are alternately growing, blossoming, and being harvested. Beside them, though, the zephyr squash is having a quite different experience. The squash boring bugs are in full throttle and relentless. There will not be any more than the two bright yellow green tipped squash from the 2012 garden.

Meanwhile the berries hanging over the garden fence have understood their meaning and importance (which is only according to moi, which as it turns out has really very little to do with anything, at all) and perfected and timed their existence to coincide with when they were  most needed. This was on Sunday night, July 1st, during the welcome dinner for the Teen-Chefs Carolina on My Plate Program. The Teens walked out to the garden and plucked perhaps 20 berries at the peak of their beauty and ripeness.

But maybe, maybe ~ all of this exposition is simply a distraction. A quest to reason and analyze (maybe next to cooking, my biggest love) and a hope to understand life and to write the full of it, about it, inside and outside the dream of it. 

But life, do you care if I am able to write you all down, even if the details are a little fuzzy? Will you then relent, satisfied that I am paying attention? 

Because I am, believe me, I am. 

And Life, maybe I am, and we all are, only a viewfinder or an i-phone camera trying to capture these moments that are so golden and fraught with delicate webs that cling to my face when I walk through the woods, only to be cleared away for a moment that brings me to my knees. Like a dream vision I thought was  clear until step back for another look.

As a writer, do you write the moments as you are going through them, or later after they have developed in your mind? Is that memory? 

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