Too Close

Sometimes, you have to be far enough away from a great idea to let it come alive on paper.  Being too close to a new idea can cause you to hold onto it too tight, hold onto the "truth" of it too tight.  I've been trying to write the story of burying my grandmother's ashes for over a decade now, and I think I've finally forgotten enough of the actual details that I can write it without agonizing over the proper chronology, over who said exactly what.  The facts of the story had long been getting in the way of its essence--the love, the humor, a story of my grandmother, my mother, and her sisters, and me getting to witness it all. 

I've found this with a lot of my writing pieces, even when it's not a "memoir" piece.  A little time away gives me a more ruthless set of editing eyes,the ability to shape and fine-tune what might otherwise be an ungainly swathe of excess.  A little objectivity lets me get to the meat of the story, to revive the original creative impulse that drove me to write in the first place. 

What do you think?  Do your memoirs need to be as accurate as possible in order to access the truth of the story?  Can our "infallible" memories ever be completely truthful?   

Dreaming of the Orchard

finger tips tracing

thick glossy pages

shiny apples, plums, pears

apricots, peaches

peachy peaches

I wipe a bit of drool from parted lips

I want to brew herbal teas

(witch-potion green)

to pour by the bucketful

over mounds and mounds of ramial mulch

 a mulchy woodsy blanket

to snug around teeny tiny apple trees

the baby trees: "whips"

brings to mind a dormant firecracker

a pencil-thin projectile of possibility

Even the pests look colorful 

and infinitely manageable

With my weapons: 

the neem oil

the liquid fish

the horsetail tea

(witch-potion green)

the woodsy mulch

the whitewash of refined kaolin clay - Tom Sawyer style

Fun fact: fungus is my friend

At the Reservoir

We stood, hesitating for a moment in the willows together before peeling off our final layer of underthings.  I don't remember who started undressing first, but I remember thinking it was kind of cliche to be skinny dipping by moonlight.  In the prickly darkness, I faltered, fumbled, almost ripping my underwear in embarrassment--Faith had already splashed away from the bank.  Finally bare, I staggered into the water, quickly sinking to my knees to hide my nakedness in the shallows of the reservoir. 

(Eight months from now these measly thirty-six inches of water will have receded enough so we can run fast, losing each other in the moon mist, our sneakers tracing these moon cracks thrust upwards, puckered like scars racing under our feet.  I will expect these moon cracks to crumble, dusty under my fingertips, but when I press the ground, my finger sinks, making a hole whose walls are caked, neither wet nor dry.  We will leave a million shoe prints on that moonscape.)

Still crouched, the water swirls under my armpits, swirling water, warmer than the air.  Deep or clouded waters usually frighten me, but I find I can melt my limbs, my skin, my lips into this wide, dark basin, warm like tears, like blood.  Its slippery comfort envelopes me as I hug my knees, nostrils barely breaking surface like a lazy crocodile.  I am crouched, immobile this way as young bodies splash and crash around me.  I am this way, sinking in mood mud, learning to breathe through my eyelids. 

My Grandmother's Raspberry Patch

We are weeding my grandmother's raspberry patch--my sisters and I--kneeling in the prickly weeds, sensible in our wide-brimmed sun hats.  The job, in theory, is easy: leave the woody raspberry canes, pull everything else.  Our cul-de-sac hands don't know what they are pulling--they tug with steady indifference, pulling up the earth into clods and pockmarks, small sunken volcanoes empty of their innards.  I throw the weeds into growing piles, starting new ones as I inch down the row.  My sisters work on one pile at a time, clearing each mound to the compost pile before starting a new one.  My way makes double the work, picking up the weeds twice, but I love the rhythm of pulling and throwing, pulling and throwing, marching down the raspberry aisle until I've made it to the end of the row, piles of wilting, shrinking greenery baking in the sun.  My piles plod after me, marking the places I've been in my grandmother's garden.  When I make my way back down the aisle, sweeping the whole thorny lot into a wincing embrace, stray burdocks stick to my shirt and hands, and the row is clean, tidy, cleared of my efforts--the thick brown raspberry canes are all that remain.

From Brooklyn to The Cuse!

Don't know whether my "nesting" impulse is kicking in or if it's just time to jump-start the inspiration for an alternate means of employment, but I've decided to re-start this writing blog.  Reading through my old posts - they made me smile, laugh, want to get that special something back that originally prompted me to "just write."  True, the excitements of living in The Big City (or rather it's hipster cousin, Brooklyn) probably helped get the creative juices juicing, but I have had moments of clarity wherein I've realized that inspiration can rear its inconvenient, glorious head in any environment.  So, so, so . . . I hope you'll all start reading again, and commenting again.  Thanks in advance for your time and encouragement :)

Caitlin