You do not have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.
Sweetness and I were invited to dinner last night at some friends we hadn’t spent time with in a while. As Catherine and I hugged hello, she laughed and said she felt she was pretty aware of what’s going on in our lives, because of Facebook, and this blog. And then she asked me a question that stumped me. “How long have you been a writer?”
I’m a writer? Nawwwww…writers are those madly creative people who spin whole worlds into being, complete with characters and …plots. Or those pure souls who craft poems, whittling away excess syllables, and throwing in alliteration, or possibly …what is that fancy word…(”soirée?” offers Kevin. No. Poetical stuff.) assonance. (I had to look that one up.) “I’m not a writer,” I protested. I just spew whatever comes out of the top of my head.
Which is somewhat problematic, because somewhere in the churning murk that lies beneath my sparkly goof there breathes … the next Iteration of Me, I guess, trying to get out into the world. Skimming the crud off the top may or may not be the best way to allow Whoever That Is to come on out and play. And lo, the murk has been churning lately.
Turns out that Ms. Sparkle here does not like day after day of rain, particularly when combined with a big push at work all last week. I don’t think there is a yoga pose called “butt in chair”. If there were, I’d be pretty good at it by now. It’s a toss-up as to what hurts more: my lower back, or my joie de vivre.
That said, dinner was lovely. As if the conversation weren’t delicious enough, there was PIE, and we unabashedly buried our faces in it and had two platefuls apiece.
Catherine grows these insanely bountiful African violets.
Today was sunny, but I find it takes my mood a while to dig itself out from the extra baggage I manage to generate at times like these. So while the day was gorgeous, I’ve been mopy. My aching back, the product of not just my special Butt in Chair pose but possibly (oops) some improper form at the gym, played a part. And then there were the usual suspects: “I should be (insert present participle verb) more”. “I’m in a bad mood – therefore, I am Failing at Life”. At this point, it’s all subliminal – the words themselves don’t even hit the radar screen. I don’t need them to: I know what they’re saying. They’re saying “just being, isn’t enough”.
Ah, that old chestnut.
Another friend suggested I take a picture of an individual plant every day, and assemble a time-lapse video, so I figured I’d start with yesterday’s brown-eyed susans.
I learned that somebody likes eating their stalks, which is just plain wrong.
Fortunately, itty bitty, baby, and big sis were fine. That’s baby, above.
And big sis.
Does this make me a photographer? Do I get to call myself a photographer if I don’t actually know how to set the shutter, aperture, and ISO all at the same time?
We have way more milkweed than we did last year. I think.
I notice I don’t have a problem being an amateur at all of this – the study of local flora, photographing it, slapping some words down about it. All I know is, I love to do it. I guess it doesn’t matter to me whether or not the words “writer” or “photographer” apply. It’s like running: if you run, you’re a runner. Speed don’t make no difference. Other people’s opinions? Pshhhh.
Maybe it’s the same everywhere: I am what I am, I do what I do, regardless of what others call it.
Snoopy getting his Snoopy on.