Ok, so this was supposed to have been finished days ago and written well in advance of that. And it was supposed to have had an article, poem or story accompanying it. It was also supposed to have been lighthearted and fun, the rhythm of the needles, feel of the yarn, inner guide (I guess my muse) calling the shots. But, somehow, time got the better of me (as it so often does) and the days, initially extensive, got swallowed up by demands.
Still, in amongst the clearing, cleaning, throwing, folding and packing, my fingers managed to steal fragmented moments, drawing on the rejects from minutes and hours. Taking advantage of these in-between times (mostly while waiting: in the car, in line at the supermarket, for doctor’s and vet’s appointments, etc.) I even broke a cardinal rule, knitting and stitching through farewell coffees and last lunches with friends.
The result (as seen above) is a piece that could have been better and should be complete. But I’m not done yet. I thoroughly anticipate my hate melting away to make room for love, my edges softening, for I have learned that with creativity, or creativity as it pertains to me, it is necessary to keep working, trusting and believing that the path travelled is the one intended, the one drawn in the future by powers I can’t ever hope to fathom or expect to see.
• see finished piece (coming soon)
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The robin was reluctant to admit to his part in the affair: the things he had done, the words he had said, the actions he had taken and the others he had withheld; things which, collectively, had led to the arrival of the blue bud – a despondent bloom who did nothing but weep, crying over today as if it were the last day on which it were possible for such things to be shed. Such was the weight of his woe, he had quite saturated the garden, coming very close to drowning an earthworm and several small slugs.
The robin sighed: how did one deal with such a creature? Should he approach with a handkerchief and attempt to wipe the stain from his nose? Or should he prepare a pot and serve hot tea instead? Whatever… whichever… he had to do something: the pathetic plant was driving him mad. Besides, he didn’t have time to indulge the dramatics of others, not when he still had so many of his own.
In addition, to further complicate, he had been raised to see all forms of weeping as weakness and displays of emotion as frail. Tears were for the faint-hearted: those who couldn’t function adequately or competently cope; the type who were afraid to go far and who would be fated to fail if ever they should. To show oneself in the company of strangers (most of whom would likely always stay that way) was both unadvisable and unwise. They might haul you in and examine your head, ply you with medication. They may even lock you up: the bud was obviously unstable, in need of help; anyone could see that. But he wasn’t about to be the one to give it: not now, not after so long… and he resented the feeling that was trying to make him believe he should.
The sun rose slowly, breaking through the cloud blanket, weak rays caressing the darker, still shadowed landscape. It woke the robin, gently tickling his eyelids. It roused the bud too, evicting it from its respite. With reluctance, it awoke. Lifting its head, it turned its face to its only companion, attempting a smile. Then, failing – as entirely as one might manage to fail when attempting a venture whose outcome they had vested an amount of energy and interest in – it looked sadly away. It knew it had to do better, figure something out. But how did one attempt to wrestle the weight of the world, placate the paralysis of problems? Did one? Could one? It wasn’t sure.
While he was away, most likely foraging in another farmer’s field, the bud decided to confront the intruders, attempting to deconstruct the darkness in order to remove it from his life. Lifting a leaf, he poked and prodded in the space around his head, believing the problem to be in his stamen. But when he brought it back out, it was empty of defect and blight.
Refusing to give up, he tried his roots, pushing another leaf down into the soil. Jackpot: immediate resistance: a creeping, crawling, carpet-skinned thing that felt like it was made up of hundreds and thousands of creatures. Ants? Beetles? Bugs? How undignified. And how horrific to have the source of his malaise situated there, somewhere so far from his immediate person and in a region he couldn’t ever hope to visually reach?
The robin returned, presenting a slug. The bud faked grateful, forcing a smile, surreptitiously sliding the odious thing away. Didn’t the robin know that slugs were poison to buds, likely to remove whole chunks from leaves and half bites from heads? To eat it would lead to his destruction: a slow crunching and chomping from the inside out; him disappearing – bit by bit, cell by cell – until he was dry, brown and brittle, a hollow shell.
Or maybe that was the plan? And if it wasn’t, then maybe he should adopt it? At least then he would have a choice. And being eaten by a slug was less intimidating and worrying then being possessed by beetles and ants. At least it would be quick.
The ants, on the otherhand, wishing only to torment, would stay – hanging around to forage and bring back to; running up and down, in and out; hiding, holding – until he found another conclusion to escape the confines of his life.
Her heart feels heavy and there are tears behind her eyes. Her whole body hurts. The sensation is all-consuming. The future is knocking and she doesn’t like what it’s carrying. Unlike before, this is not an adventure or an illustrious trip: it’s an about-turn; a reversal of trajectory, heading face-on into a familiar undesirable she thought herself to have fled.
Rebecca L. Atherton 