Writing Sanctuary | Day Two

Responses to Beth Kempton’s prompts for SLOWING

I am sitting in the old workshed. Rain pattering on the roof the occasional ping as it encounters tin a soothing comforting rhythm bringing a gradual coolness. Cold water from the fridge in a cool metal cup. The sensation of a drop of water still resting on the skin of my arm, another balanced on my head. Looking down at the drops on my arm I wonder how long it will take for the drop on my head to surrender to the downward pull of gravity, or if it will dry in its own time. I thought it might fall when I tipped my head forward, but I can feel the cool patch is still there. And my arm twinkles with the glitter as the droplets catch the light of the old desklamp adding its warm pool to the soft green light through the window that today is not quite strong enough to work by.

My feet rest on a box filled with lavender ― the stalks from the garden I’ve not yet stripped to make the little buds I tip into twists of silk in the way I learned from my mother, but only by discovering the bundled silk handkerchiefs tied with ribbon tucked neatly between her underwear and clothes and precious things when we cleared the chest of drawers after her death. If I rock my feet the lavender rewards me with a burst of scent and memories.

It is peaceful here. The drip of the rain on the [what’s the black stuff you put on shed roofs called?!] is one of my favourite sounds. I realise I spent a lot of my childhood in sheds and outbuildings and funny dirty rough little places overtaken by cobwebs and dust and dried out grass stalks. Mr Buttons shed, the greenhouse, the barn behind the house, the garage, the Wendy house. When we cleared out at B__ M__, in the sheds there was something of the feeling I get when I walk into a church, or a library. That simply by being here, I am part of a collective memory, present in a space that has held life and plans and hopes. 

I breath in the peace, the warm musty familiar smell that is the smell of all those places from my past, wrap it round me and begin . . .

. . .

~ DAILY SPARKS ~

Extinction

You were only doing what all life does

:

Seek to keep on living.

I didn’t even think about it

;

I’m not sure I even noticed until the sharp slap of my hand on my arm reminded me

And my first reaction

Disappointment

I missed it

It got away

Did it bite before it flew?

But see that is remarkable

Because if something thousands or even hundreds or even tens of times my size ― or even twice ― wanted to squash me

It could. It so easily could.

This time last year, I broke my own foot by landing on it after standing up, thoughtlessly, from this very spot.

[

Fifth metatarsal it was, an injury common among footballers, though I have never played football in my life. 

Ball games aren’t my thing.

The only running I do 

Is away.

]

And as I say, you were only doing what you need to do

To stay alive.

the itch from your bite will be gone in an hour or so

It would be convenient to believe that by dispatching you i send you on to a new life, something higher up the scale

But where is that? And who decides?

I think I prefer the idea of sinking back into the earth to feed new things growing

So what I’m saying is

I don’t think you deserve to die

To save me from a minor itchy inconvenience.

I’ll pack up my things and move away to a less buzzy spot

Leave you to bite another day.

[a diversion but not for now: is the value of a life reflected in its length?]

And who’s to judge that because you’re here only a moment and I’ve had at least fifty years, your life is worth less? That old Shakespearean thought: mosquitoes don’t care if you are king or peasant, if you have sweet blood to suck. I guess they do care about species though: some things they bite and some they don’t.]

[a distraction:

My eye caught by sunlight bouncing from the eye of a fly busily washing, rubbing forelegs on forelegs, mid on mid, rear on rear, a careful ritual of cleaning for an insect we dismiss as filth. Now it’s turned to face the other way. Smoothing its wings, the fur of its body. The light shines blue on its behind. It’s taking its time, cleaning and cleaning while I’ve been writing and writing. How did it learn? I don’t think flies have mothers who teach them how. And why isn’t it cute when a fly rubs its legs over its eyes like a kitten rubbing its eyes with its paws? It has the iridescent sheen of a science fiction dream. It can fly. It can walk on walls and hang out on ceilings. And look at that, it even cleans its eating straw (is that called a proboscis?) tugging and stretching and rubbing at it for minutes. The quick repetitive movements are obsessive compulsive a nervous tic through human eyes, excessive for the job in hand. But maybe not: energy must be hard won if you’re a fly, we all know how much fuel it takes to get off the ground. It’s still now. Resting after its hard good work. And there it goes again. Hind legs rubbing. All else held still. slow slide down slow slide up rapid scrubbing pause. Eyes red-brown and body blue. The green is only seen in certain lights.

And now my own eye is caught by a tiny bird landing heavy on a nearby branch, flitting to the next and then up and under to the feeder in the bush.

The fly oblivious. Not moving now. I wonder if it will still be there when I look up again.]

~

Leisure

For the longest time, I wanted to stop. I just didn’t think I could.

[the fly has stopped. Perhaps it is having a snooze.]

Children tell you to stop. They want to be here right here for longer and keep looking. But we bundle them up and busy them on and if they’re lucky we let them have a five minute warning.

Death tells you to stop. It reminds you of how short even the longest life can feel, when it’s coming to an end. But we load it up with busy work, strange admin work to take our mind off things and get us back to normal.

Our bodies tell us to stop. They sometimes give us no choice. And even then we lie there fretting about all the time we’re wasting, not getting things done.

[another little bird. The fly has moved to a new spot, not far, just next to where it was. Not even walking distance. and is still there, being still]

If we’re to think of what distinguishes us from other creatures, it is surely this. I wonder which others notice beauty? So either, then, it’s no big deal if our lives are spent up doing, with the busy-ness of living ― and we should sacrifice our idea of being different in some way. Or it is in truth the most important thing we do. To be the watchers, the listeners, the ones who appreciate the hard work and miracles unfolding every 

[a tiny spider has come to join me, stepping lightly on the desk, testing the way climbing falling back a little pause to rub its forelegs then on over the edge easy as turning a corner and suddenly a drop of silk down a way back up again and now it’s gone]

. . .

Responding to the invitation to notice, then write three haikus

:

Pigeons startle up.

Perhaps nature does not like

To be noticed.

\ \

Cherry leaves scarred with

rot tracing fine curlicues.

Beauty in decay.

\ \

A thread of cobweb

links two cherry leaves

No tiny tightrope walker

. . .

Today’s Person from Porlock [aside from the fly] : D__ the window cleaner, and a good chat about writing in the shed and the dog’s adventure [leaping unscathed from the first-floor window to chase foxes in the dead of night!] and what a good story it might make and how if you’re falling from a ladder you should never jump

A moment with S by the beleaguered cherry tree, cautioning against pruning that could make it more vulnerable to disease. Wanting to photograph the patterns on the leaves, knowing I could never capture their strange beauty in words. I’m not sure the pictures do them justice either, really.

. . .

Coming back in from my chat and noticing nature, I settled straight to my desk and the busying of writing down haiku thoughts and forgot to look for the fly.

Haikus complete, I remembered to notice and at first thought it was gone. Looked again and there it was, tucked under a curl of wrought iron. Upside down. A golden globe is balanced on its face. I looked away to write and the globe was gone. Back and it was blowing once more, like a bubble. And again, in and out. Slow steady catching the light a miniature sun in the most unexpected place.

Today i have gained new respect for the fly.