Observing how the English ivy wound its way around a small tree trunk, I asked my daughter why the English ivy simply didn't shoot straight up. Why did it take a circuitous route? It needs something to cling to, she said. I thought this was rather insightful, coming from a twelve-year-old girl. Instead of growing directly toward the sun, the English ivy tacked left then right until it had secured its position on the trunk. It held fast. It wasn't going to budge. This is why we fail, I thought. Oftentimes we never get directly to our goal but, instead, try, fail, experiment, try again until we inch forward. In doing so, we establish security. We are firm where we are. Those who attain their goals too easily, however, are bound to fall away. They are not wound tightly around the trunk. They can simply be peeled away. It is an interesting way to look at our failures, at any rate. Perhaps we are just winding our way around our destiny.
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We thought it was a coyote, but it wasn't. It was a car. The damage was too much. Pablo had to be put to sleep. I don't know why I was surprised by the reaction. We all wept. I knew that was coming. But in the next few days, there were angry outbursts. Anger. We were all so mad that our sweet little gray kitty was struck, forcing us to make a horrible decision. He's under the rose bush now. I mowed the lawn today and clenched my jaw as I passed his grave.
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The sky looks more blue when you are wearing sunglasses. I wonder if there is a metaphor in this. Is a thing more beautiful when it is view through a dark prism? Is there joy only because there is pain? Do the two work in some mysterious symbiosis? Is this life? Is it about learning to find the good despite the bad?
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Jordan B. Peterson argues that we must always tell the truth or at least not lie. What does this suggest about the way in which Western society has evolved? Are we a culture built on falsehoods? Have we become a people too afraid to call it how it is? It does not take long to see in the cacophony of arguments inundating the air waves, social media, and the like that people are usually dancing around the issue, whatever that may be. A direct observation would be refreshing. A refusal to submit to rules of conversation dictated by ideologues would be helpful. Our voices should not be mere echoes of what somebody else says. We should think on our own and say what we mean, not in coded language but in clear, honest language.
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Perhaps the ability to write fiction is the ability to make something of wounds, either yours or somebody else's. I'm thinking now of the boy who, years ago, worked in the same field as a group of other individuals. They were haying, and they were bonding in the way that coworkers do who ache and sweat under the same sun. When lunch time came around, everybody but the boy was invited to go up to the house. The boy was only twelve. While the rest ate together, the boy ate his sandwich by himself on a stump next to the field. That event remained with him throughout his life. It haunted him -- gave him feelings that he struggles with to this day. Perhaps it is a writer's duty to try to make sense of instances like this, Perhaps all it takes is to write them down. We take a wound, and we make it communal. Maybe this is where the healing begins.
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"I am so lonely, but I know there is a plan. There must be. I can muscle through my life until the next move is clear. I miss you all so much. I am alone for most of the time. It's just me and the cats and dogs. Nobody comes up. Nobody stops by. It's not like it used to be -- so full of life. Perhaps I'll move down there with you. But not now. There is a plan, and I must follow it. I must follow it even though it's too quiet around here."