Oh! What’s this on the counter? Smells so good I could eat it. Maybe I will. Actually, it smells like the old girl…she’s always got it in her hands…mmmm, ok, not very tasty, but I like the ripping noise… oh my oh, yes… ~ Rusty the Retriever (aka Bad Dog)
One evening, after much working, Christmas shopping and sorting of all things telecom, I returned home tired and loaded with my many bags of foodies, presents and a new cell phone. Preoccupied with all of these purchases, I dismissed a small mass of chewed bits of paper on the dining room floor as the remains of yet another library book, or school journal that my daughters’ had left out for the dogs to demolish. Actually, their speciality is pulling ready-to-eat foods off the counter, or knickers out of the laundry, sniffing, ripping and chewing until said article is no more, but in a pinch, books are a handy and satisfying substitute.
It wasn’t until I headed to bed later that night that I noticed a tidy pile of torn and chewed paper, lying on the dining room table, likely removed from the floor by my eldest who had been home for a moment earlier that day. My heart sank when I recognized my scribble, broken by the feathered edges of the ripped paper.
My journal. My every-ready catch-all for all the thoughts du jour that light on my conscience mind when I’m away from the computer and unable to capture them. It had somehow fallen from my purse, and found some avid readers. I panicked, first because my daughter had likely read it, and it contained some thoughts that I needed to share with her but that needed a good editing. After all, one can’t just say what’s on one’s mind to a sixteen year old, without considering that the source is parental and thus, not very bright. Secondly, I had begun a collection of observations over this past year that were now partially digested. I don’t believe that lightning ever strikes twice, and though I am the sole source of this rhetoric and should not worry that it can’t be re-created, a story is never the same once retold.
What to do? Too late for the bad dog scream, though it might have made me feel better to release it. Too late to drag the boys over and have a discussion about the importance of preserving the written word, especially mine. I did what I always do when crisis lands in my lap; I carried on.
To persevere in adversity, the only direction to follow is forward. The alternative is unthinkable, as stopping allows fear to prey upon strength, tear up the strands bridging us together in solidarity, and isolate the spirit. Even just going through the motions of moving forward provides a stabile environment in which inner strength can re-grow.
Intent on preserving some recent musings as I remembered them, I immediately sat at the computer attempting to recreate them. But while I watched the blinking lights and waited for it to boot up, I realized that that once again, the boys (my canine sons) had brought me closer to something important, something worthwhile. I hadn’t written much in months, except for a few ideas in the journal, some copy at work, and a few sillyass one-liner texts exchanged with an old friend. All this had been less than fulfilling, and I now found myself unable to excuse this stall of creativity any longer.
So I wrote, even though it was past my bedtime and I was tired all over. I wrote, shivering in my seat because it was cold in my old house, owing to a blizzard blowing through the cracks of my doorframe. I wrote, knowing that I would feel satisfied when I had finished, and that I had imparted something of myself. Wasn’t that what I was meant to learn today? Well, firstly that. Secondly to use my new cell for texting myself transient cerebral jewels. And finally, to be sure to provide more exercise for my four-legged muses so they don’t become bored and eat anymore of my treasures.
No comments:
Post a Comment