Wednesday, July 18, 2012

to write or not to write...

I've spent my day in activity. I've walked and painted and cleaned and walked and run errands. And now I am home. Alone. I have wanted some time to myself for the last couple of days, and now it is here. And I am tempted to keep on with the busy-making because it feels productive and productive is good. Or I could spend this time doing what I've felt itchy to do for days, which is write. I can say to myself, 'It's okay to write, it has worth simply by being a pleasure'. Right, yeah..It's okay to make it personal, or random, or fictional. Or to write randomly personal fiction. And now that I have permission....

  Grenadine lived by the river all of her life. She had been soothed and oddly tempered by it as a child. She loved her good fortunate to live so near, and yet she feared it's ability to overflow it's banks and swallow the few but precious things her family owned. This possibility, in her mind, was somehow dependent on her behavior, and she rarely ran wild with her siblings. She respected the river and loved it with the same deep reverence she held for her Gran.
   In her youth the river fueled imaginings of 'away', of floating like a leaf downstream to a place that held less toil and less poverty and boys that didn't chew, or smell like their daddy's hogs. She looked askance at the river sometimes, feeling resentful of it's freedom and apparent enthusiasm for life. All of that bubbling and rushing, when she was young and bent to one task or another. It also filled her with a secret thrill to think that maybe she could be free like the river. That she could rush past her family and her home and be the embodiment of movement and light.
   In her adulthood, married and raising her own children, she hated the river for a span of years. Raged against it in her heart, filled it in with angry words. Rather than free her, it had kept her there. She cared for her father in his old age, and, one short year later when her mother died she found herself feeling years beyond her age, and deeply tired, and weeping on the riverbank. And in a cruel prolonging of her grief, the river took one of her babies at just 3 years old.
   In September she turned 91, (or two, she had lost count). She felt that the river was part of her, that it had become her family. She knew it so well, and loved it so completely. She had hated it at points, but when she allowed it, the river could soothe and heal her. She was comforted by the cycles of the river that passed in spite of her losses or her joy. In winter it was almost entirely silent, and moved at the same tedious pace she herself had acquired in recent years. In Spring it danced with the thaw, singing the song it had always sung, releasing into the air the same sweet scent from it's banks. In the depth of summer it cooed and laughed and promised cool, deep promises. Come autumn it was a wind blown quilt, rushing gold and pumpkin and crimson leaves toward her, and past, and finally, it took her away...

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