I spent naptime today down on my parents dock with a mug of tiramisu flavored decaf and a smile. The dock's turned gray and creaks as the waves push beneath her. She's getting old and moves more easily with the water. We both swayed to the lake's rhythm in the cool of the morning. So calm and peaceful, I wondered why it's been so long since I've sat there.
Well, The Boss, for one. He's hardly the type of mellow little guy that would let me sit quietly on the dock while he sat quietly beside me, and so we don't go down there during the day. And then of course, there are the spiders. Dock spiders - bushy black legged beasties. Last summer, I saw two and lost the nerve to put naked toes near the planks for fear of what might come from between to greet me. I forced myself to imagine that they haven't yet found the dock this summer, that it's still mine, and so I sat.
It was like visiting an old friend. Myself. The girl who used to spend hours scribbling in notebooks, lounging on this dock. The girl who kissed boys she had no intention of kissing, but did so anyway on this dock. The girl who sat at the docks edge and stared at the moving water in the hopes it would somehow give her direction, purpose.
Then I wondered, how is it that I am years apart from this girl, yet still connected? Why is it that I still want for there to be room for her in my current life? The one with the husband and the babies and bills and stress - where she'd serve no purpose but to distract?
But then again, for a writer, perhaps that's a solid enough purpose. Without wondering and distraction, what would there be to write about?
Well, The Boss, for one. He's hardly the type of mellow little guy that would let me sit quietly on the dock while he sat quietly beside me, and so we don't go down there during the day. And then of course, there are the spiders. Dock spiders - bushy black legged beasties. Last summer, I saw two and lost the nerve to put naked toes near the planks for fear of what might come from between to greet me. I forced myself to imagine that they haven't yet found the dock this summer, that it's still mine, and so I sat.
It was like visiting an old friend. Myself. The girl who used to spend hours scribbling in notebooks, lounging on this dock. The girl who kissed boys she had no intention of kissing, but did so anyway on this dock. The girl who sat at the docks edge and stared at the moving water in the hopes it would somehow give her direction, purpose.
Then I wondered, how is it that I am years apart from this girl, yet still connected? Why is it that I still want for there to be room for her in my current life? The one with the husband and the babies and bills and stress - where she'd serve no purpose but to distract?
But then again, for a writer, perhaps that's a solid enough purpose. Without wondering and distraction, what would there be to write about?
Labels: Myself, Reflections
4 Comments:
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First of all, as a heretofore silent visitor to your blog, I'd like to say how much I enjoy your writing, your insights, and your humour . . .
Secondly, I think that distractions are exactly what spurs a writer on (the right kind of distractions, that is . . . I mean, bills and stress are a kind of distraction, but they're the wrong kind, I'd say. :-) Yours was definitely 'a solid enough purpose.' How lovely, just solitude, memories, the sound of water rocking wood.
And do you find the threat of spiders makes the spiderless moment that much more special?
Darkmind Amen.
Inkslinger Thank you for coming out from the shadows, so to speak. I agree, in a world with so many of the wrong kind of distractions, thank goodness for docks and memories.
Oh, but the spiders...I fear them pretty much constantly while seated on the dock. Luckily, there's also a wooden bench swing just a few feet from the water. Spider-free.
She's always there. Lose her, lose everything.
I don't mean to sound dire.
Just that there's this part of us, from before we were all kinds of grown up, that was more open...more in touch with certain things.
I'm glad she was waiting for you on the dock. Bet you she's the writer in you...
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