I am going to delve deeper into the meaning of metaphor in next week's blog. This week, however, I came across a box of some salvageable writing pieces I wrote in the past. As you know, when the flood hit, I scrambled, both in focus and fog, attempting to 'save' and dry out sopped paper. I didn't stop to read the hundreds of pieces of paper, whether it was a scrap of yellow, plain, flowered, ripped, whole, folded paper--I just tried to prevent their ruin. I was thankful that I wrote in pen.
When I write thoughts and musings I rarely go back and edit or even set aside in an organizational way. I don't keep folders or have a system for future retrieval (mind you, this is not a recommendation). I just stuff the pieces of writing in a bag, pant pocket, desk drawer, empty box, or in a book. There. I thought. I felt. I wrote. It's born.
Unless it is something for potential publication, I don't usually nurture its development. I don't pamper it or share it with anyone. Except...for example, when I happen to come across a napkin that has a poem written on it in an old coat pocket.
Those words written in ink give me pause. When I reread the forgotten scrawl that single moment in time is relived. Because of my neglect, I might care for its wounds, wipe away the blood from its edges. I'll bandage the words, I may even resuscitate it and bring the poem into a new light. I'll give it momentary tender attention, a minute of sweet nostalgia, then...I will send it on its way to find another spot to rest until the happenstance of my wanderlust meets up with it again.
It's funny, because I think of my hundreds of books in my personal library as my "babies". I know them all by name. I have a special place for each of them. I visit them often and give my time to their pages. I reach out and touch them, hoping I'll find a gem or two that I missed. Some have been recent born and others, with respect, are handled with gentleness because of their age and experience. With each individual book, it's like I have a conversation with a distinctive voice and personality.
A book, a poem, are more than just 'nouns". They might be locked in by the judgmental looks of others, but to me they are not "normal" company with whom I'm hospitable. They come and plant seeds of meaning so that I can make sense of life...and when the journey begins there... out spills metaphor...life jackets of ink.