grow where you're planted
There are times when I sit down at my computer, lay my hands on the keyboard, and thoughts form, words appear on the screen, ideas flow seemingly out of nowhere.
Other times, I stare relentlessly at a blank screen like I’m in a blinking contest. I always blink first. The words just are not there. They do not flow. They do not congeal into productive thought patterns. They do not grace me with their presence at all. It doesn’t matter how long I stare at the screen.
Generally, when that happens, I try to find something to inspire. Or prod. Lately, I have been making jewelry and playing with my camera. While neither of those activities have goaded a decent blog out of me, I have considered the time well spent.
On one occasion, while having a particularly long battle with writer's block, I went out into the back yard and took some shots of the weeds. I like weeds. Actually, it’s the wild flowers that I like. One year, I bought my mother, who is by all accounts the hardest person on the planet to buy for, a wall hanging. I think it was acrylics on an old piece of wood. Across the top it said “Grow where you’re planted.” Below, was a very simple buy lovely garden of wildflowers.
When I gave this piece to my mother I was quite pleased with myself for about a minute and a half. Until she sat it down on the floor, said she’d find a place for it and forgot about it. Ultimately, it ended up on the wall above the commode in the extra bathroom. That was as good a place as any I thought.
Not long after it had taken it’s rightful spot in the throne room, I caught my daughter looking it over quite closely. I stood there waiting to see what her 10 year old appraisal would be. She turned, looked at me and said, “My teacher said weeds are just flowers growing where people don’t want them to grow.”
I’m not sure if that meant she liked the painting or if she meant that weeds in the bathroom were appropriate.
I didn’t ask.