The Wings

Here is a little exercise I wrote a few years ago (Sept. 8, 2017), in which “I wrote anything until I found myself writing something.” It ended up in my little flash fiction chapbook, 24 flashes. The story begins as a conversation between me and Ray Bradbury, riffing on his wonderful writing advice, “Jump, and build your wings on the way down,” which, come to think of it, is a lovely way of saying the same thing. Later on, when he interrupts my fairy tale, I confront my mentor with another sweet Bradbury quote, this one collected in Zen and the Art of Writing: “Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine. The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spend the rest of the day putting the pieces together.”

He looked out over the horizon and saw vast possibilities. He looked down and saw a vast drop.

“Go ahead,” said the man in the tousled white hair. “Jump, and build your wings on the way down.”

“Can’t,” he whispered.

“Come on, buddy,” said the man, pulling off his horn-rimmed glasses and wiping them carefully. “What did the little elf say – ‘Do or do not. There is no try’? You haven’t even been trying lately, have you?”

“Too much to do,” he muttered. “And who’s listening anyway?”

“Whatcha got to say?” the man challenged. “Not gonna listen to white noise, are they?”

“OK,” he said. “Here goes. Once upon a time –”

“Really?”

“Shut up,” he told the white-haired man. “Once upon a time – oh, now I’ve lost my train of –”

“No, no, you’re right. I’m sorry. Jump.”

So he jumped.

Continue reading “The Wings” →

The Fable of Any Road

It’s a wind chime day, and it rained last night and looks to rain some more. The leaves are still green, mostly, and the Black-eyed Susans are still gathered, perhaps fading at the edges. Barely one week left in summer, or so says the calendar, but in this part of the world, summer can be fleeting and the darker months linger past their welcome.

I don’t mind a dreary day. It makes the warm coffee more special, and comfort food has a chance to fulfill its purpose. My mind wants to fill my conscience with a list of things I could have done all summer, but there’s still a scoonch of summer left to do some of it, and the rest can wait. I see the list of all I did do, and that will have to be enough. I can’t call back the summer anyway and, Lord willing, I’ll have another season for those tasks left undone.

I must remember to be more intentional, to set an agenda for the new day’s action, and follow it as best I can. Too many days I fritter away aimlessly, thinking, “I wonder what I can do today, only to reach sunset and think, “Oh yeah, oh no, I know what I could have done.”

There’s always tomorrow, I think at that point, but then another aimless day comes and goes. I find that if I set a plan in stone, I resist its merciless face, but a plan too flexible is a wet noodle with no power or fire at all.

“Where are you going, young man?” the old man asked along the way.

“I don’t really know,” said the young man.

“You’re in luck, or maybe not,” replied the old man. “Any road will take you there.”

“I’ve heard that one before,” the young man scoffed. “It sounds so wise, but a long and winding road gives me time to enjoy the scenery along the way.”

“Absolutely,” the old man agreed. “You can even double back if you decide you passed your real destination. Just try not to regret the days you could have been spending settled there. The journey is as rewarding – more so, really – than the final stop.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Still, a bit of finding where you want to go beats meandering, and that’s all I’m saying.”

And what do you know, the young man set his sails that day and discovered it was so.

The Muse, Called Late For Dinner

The Muse smiled and said, “You have my number. Call me anytime, just don’t call me late for dinner. I hate to miss a meal.”

And then she told me stories, and she showed me how to piece words together so that people cried, and learned, and found their spirits lifted. We journeyed to faraway lands and studied close at hand, examining every finger and climbing every mountain.

I lay beside my dying dog and couldn’t find the words except “Thank you,” and I rode waves of phrases about places I never glimpsed.

The Muse was there all this while, holding my pen to the paper, showing me where to turn. I shivered at the cold words and my heart began to burn.

What does a Muse need for sustenance? I never really learned, but a Muse called late for dinner leaves regret to haunt too long.

When fed, the poetry will flow easily and the prose will charm a stone. The words will comfort in the darkest night that otherwise feels alone. The Muse can be a stolid companion, a friend along hard paths, but a Muse called late to dinner leaves rhyme and rhythm stumbling down steep and barren hills.

The days I wish I’d called the Muse, instead of napping or looking another way, are more than I can count. She never abandoned me, she waited patiently; I could feel her waiting to tell me the story, until one day she shrugged and took the tale to another, more willing soul. I came back one chilly night and opened my unfinished work, finding ashes where the flame had been, and a note:

“I waited for your call in my finest dinner dress, but you never called, or when you finally called I had retired for the night and let it slip to voicemail.”

There’s a story left undone and a sketch of something new, and a half-dozen journeys started searching for the meandering mentor and the unclimbable cliff that lights the climber’s eyes. It’s impossible to fault the Muse, she stood by me prepared, but the Muse called late for dinner finds another place to eat; I think that’s only fair.

So now it’s time for me to wait. I hope I can be as patient as the Muse who tapped my shoulder, gave me a shove sometimes, and slapped me silly until I roused for another little while, then drifted back to sleep. Someday, perhaps, she’ll throw me a scrap and fill my heart with song, or at least a solid short story, or even a phrase for the ages.

I just need to be as patient as she was, listen gratefully for her nudge, and never ever ever call her late for dinner again.