I notice the wind today. Steady, strong exhales. Gratitude for all of us who are breathing in the earth’s love.
I wonder how many readers have decided this blog post is not for them after the first three sentences. I wonder how many readers have noticed a curiosity rising, a flow of inner energy that is like a tickle in their mind, a trickle of wonder.
I notice the chickadee tree. Also known as pine tree. Also known as welcoming tree as it grows near the front door of the house. Shading the pine tree’s roots is the prairie-dog-lookout-rock also known as the chickadee perch and the dog-marking-place. I notice the tree moves with the wind, not in one big sway, but many small shudders, adjusting and flowing with the wind; the only resistance, an adapting trunk. I notice chickadee tree grows stronger with each gust. I notice it enjoys the chickadees' call to me, keep going…I believe in you.
I tattooed the word believe on my wrist in my 40th year, after my birthday, when I made a vow to write a novel to carry me through the grief of all that I’d lost when I lost my mother to an early death, 54 years old. I despaired when the publishing of the novel did not bring her back to me, did not help me to settle into my forever-changed life.
Believe. The word is not as easy to read now, as it was then. My wrists have grown, impossibly, thinner and unless I soothe the skin with lotion, the inky text seems like a grouping of symbols. If it were a Boggle board, I would say it says many things: Live. Be. Veil. Evil. Bee. Vibe. Vile.
The novel, Wicked Sweet, is a tale of a young woman unable to live up to her mother’s expectations and abandoned by her best friend. She adopts Nigella Lawson as her fairy godmother, a sensuous woman who loves food. The young woman sets out a plan to steal back her best friend. The obstacle to their friendship, she decides, is a young man who overpowers our protagonist with his meanness. She bakes cakes, leaves them anonymously on doorsteps and, through actions playing out more and more confusion, attempts to exact revenge on the young man. She believes this revenge will result in everyone seeing, clearly, his malevolent ways and casting him aside. She will be the heroine of all of the story. She will win the affection of her friend and, indeed, of everyone. She will be safe, loved, and in control of a certain future of everything-is-nigella-lawson-great.
I notice my mother used to say, I don’t get angry, I get even.
I, too, have watched this play out in my own life.
Belief is limiting. Stating the kind of person you are, from only one perspective, is limiting.
Creating something new can be confusing, can set you apart, can free you and can also trap you.
I notice if I call the tree in front of the house by one name, perhaps its science-given-name, then I may stop noticing. That’s all it is. That’s what I’ve been told. A tree is a genus. It has parts, logically arranged. It is only a function of evolution. A tree.
Not the pine in front of the house, but a pine I visit often. I call them Lone Pine. Pictured here with one of dozens of small pines in the boulder field at the bottom of Ghost Lake Dam, along the Bow River.
But…what if, like each of us, we saw the tree from many perspectives. What would we come to understand? What might our relationship become?
I notice my mother was much more than a woman who said, I don’t get angry, I get even. Which, by the way, was not an honest statement because she did get angry. And she did get even. She tried to warn others around her that they might see her as powerless, but she was not. I’m not sure how many opportunities she exercised her power and her voice with compassion, but I remember her kindnesses towards me as drops of the sweetest nectar.
I dedicated the novel Wicked Sweet to my daughter. She said to me when I was depressed and sad and I couldn’t seem to write anything, “write about something you love, Mom. I know you can do it. You are a good writer.”
I notice how much I love trees. How much I’ve learned from them. How I’ve begun to feel their presence in my day-dreams and night-dreams and how I seek out their wise counsel. Sometimes the ones you love can speak in ways to remind you of your goodness, your skill, your meaning in life.
I write today of something I love. The pine.
I wrote this today for myself. These last two lines were added to complete an assignment for a Memoir Writing Course.
What does the protagonist want: To prove her worth, the validity of her belief in the trees.
What does the protagonist need: To trust that she is overflowing with enoughness. No matter her beliefs, she is worthy of love.