Garden Blemishes

Weeding strongly affects one's perspective on life it seems.  A simple task can lead to deep thought.

For, as I walked back to the house this evening, I found I could not simply walk back as one does with the purpose of arriving at the place to which he is headed.  Instead, having spent time weeding of late, I had to stop and pull each weed I saw.

I did not appreciate the flowers or bushes, nor even the light shining through the trees.  All I could see were the weeds that needed to be pulled, and in this moment of compulsiveness I stooped not necessarily to make the place more beautiful, but to fulfill a duty.  If I had wanted to make it more beautiful, I might instead have turned my gaze upon the beautiful aspects of the gardens.  I might even have changed my perspective to see the whole as beautiful even with the weeds.

Yet I missed the passing beauty of the light that will never fall exactly the same way again, of a garden that will never look the same tomorrow; I missed everything but the weeds.

This is not to say there was nothing good in my weeding.  No doubt the garden really did look better without the weeds.  Also, I found it comforting to thus make my mark upon my surroundings, to fulfill this small duty, to accomplish something that clearly needed to be done.  There is a sort of pleasure in destroying something that is not seen as good.

So the weeds lie there shriveling in the garden now for whatever that is worth...

Take this as you will, dear readers.  I doubt you will need an explanation of this parable, but if you do I will not mind providing it.

The Time Has Come

"The time has come," the Walrus said,

"To talk of many things:

Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--

Of cabbages--and kings--

And why the sea is boiling hot--

And whether pigs have wings.

The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll

That is the quotation that always comes to my mind whenever I start to say "The time has come...."  In this case, I intended to begun with that statement for the very reason that the time has indeed come for me to return to writing, both here and elsewhere.

Since I started writing seriously around the age of twelve--having wanted to be a writer since I was five or so--I have found it makes my life richer and more meaningful.  I have always had ideas crowding to mind and the itch to write.  I find that when I sit down and put words to paper to pursue the ideas floating through my mind that it makes me happier.  No doubt this is the way of a writer.

Well I have just finished approximately three years of fallow time.  It is good to be a writer again.

This time of dormancy began originally because I had decided to pursue the study of theatre.  I love theatre because it is an extension of my love of writing--a way to make all of my stories live.

I learned an incredible amount in my small drama program, not only about theatre, but about writing.  I had no idea how much I had learned until I came back to the sixth draft of my novel this spring.  I knew that my playwrighting class had taught me a lot.  That was writing, so its potential influence was obvious.  Not so obvious, however, was the effect of everything else I learned about dramatic action and objectives and the theory of theatre and so on.  All of it is combining to make this sixth draft so much stronger.

It is paradoxical that one can become a better writer by not writing.  This is not to encourage laziness or avoidance of writing.  It is true, however, that once one has spent years and years reading and writing and reading more and writing more, all that work needs time to lie dormant before it is ready to sprout forth.

I hope soon--perhaps in a year or less--to have a finished draft to share with the world.  Until then, I hope to resume my random postings on here.  I hope I shall leave you, my readers, with some fruit from your time here.