She shouldn’t care more about you
than you do yourself.
Your success should be on your shoulders
not on hers.
She can guide, support, aid,
but you must do the work,
think the thoughts, stretch your brain,
believe you can.
There is no easy way.
You need to care enough to be your best,
trust the tools and safe venue for risk,
let her cheer from the side,
as she watches you ride
away into your future.
You need to trust, this isn’t a place
to stay.
Sculpting honey?
Pointless.
Shapes dissolve in moments,
dissappear in the gleaming
sweetness of now–
much like
memories
of you.
“Creations are creatures, and they have lives of their own.”
Louise Penny. The Nature of the Beast.
I’m reading this Inspector Gamache novel, and Ruth made this comment about a play. The line after indicates that the play was the playwright. It seems both powerful and succinctly true. When we create something, it comes from us, often reflect deep truths about us, but it also becomes itself. It speaks to those who view/read/listen/watch with its own voice (filtered through or reflecting their voice). I am often fascinated to hear what readers have taken from my work. Sometimes they find things I put there, but often they find things that are completely different, and just as valid. Once the book or poem left my hands, it became its own entity. It’s an interesting experience. It reminds me of the first time an adult mentions they know your child- they’ve interacted with them in a way that is unconnected to you, and you realize they have their own independent lives. Children are creations, too. They’re equally part of us and completely themselves. Ah. Creation is a complex thing!
From a writing point of view, what a perfectly crafted sentence for this character. Ruth is a poet, and doesn’t the line sound like a poem? Louise Penny is my hero.
I wanted to go.
I raced out the door.
It’s been a horrible week but it’s over
and I’m coming home to you at last!
Then the signs.
Prepare to stop.
We waited
waited
waited
waited
waited
until the flagger said,
“No one is getting through tonight.”
Highways in all directions sealed
like a disaster movie.
Creeks washed out.
Head-on collision.
Mud-slide.
Avalanche.
The truckers lined up for miles.
I’m tucked up in a hotel with a good book,
safe and dry,
but I’d rather be home
with you.
.
.
.
True story. But it could have been worse! On one side of the slide was the bride; the groom and family were sharing a hotel with me. A story for their grandkids! My commute is usually 22 minutes, but it was 22 hours this time.
You’re creating a story
folded into the pages of the book
It’s not the story the author intended.
It’s not what people expect to see.
But your folds and cuts
tell your story,
and your story
is enough.
I’m crafting a world
and living in it.
You’re part of the narrative,
if only,
you were there.
Day by day,
week by week,
month by month,
year by year,
Perpetual motion
marks our lives,
cradle to grave.
Recto, verso,
each a new start
toward the inevitable,
inexorable,
final page.
