News and memories demand my attention. Worries crowd in among plans. Hopes and fears, whine constantly.
But I imagine stories.
No one else hears them, but they stir and evolve constantly.
The boy, Ivan, learns the language of the birds, conversing daily with the flicker, the wren, the mocker, and all the inhabitants of the enchanted forest...
A king gets lost in the woods, and offers riches for a way out...
Water-bugs twirl in frenzied busyness in the creek beneath the willow; rushing about in a miniature water world. In the reeds, the old bug sits and conjures stories for the less restless ones...
The rubber bands in the kitchen 'junk' drawer call out when I go looking for a bit of string, or wire, or tape or fasteners; 'pick me!' they cry...
They accompany me as I go about my busyness.
Entering the dense bamboo behind the house to clear brush, the story speaks:
Destiny waits there.
She entered and met her fate:
sharp, hard, cruel.
Pricked and injured, all she was before fell
fast asleep.
All around her fierce tangles spread:
sharp, hard, cruel.
Thorny briar rose,
Daring princes to come find her..."
I imagine stories. They glow like embers from a dying fire.
My friend, the artist Nate Barton, writes about carrying embers. "There are things in life that do not arrive fully formed. They begin small. A question. A way of noticing. A pull toward something not yet understood. They do not demand attention, but they ask for it. And if they are ignored too long, they can go out."
Stories ask for my attention. I give them my imagination.
They fill a reservoir behind my silence.
I am only an occasional writer as this blog attests.
My mode is speaking. I speak when someone listens.
Now, I am only an occasional speaker.
But I still imagine stories...
Carrying the Ember – Nate Barton
