Writing is like breathing, it’s possible to learn to do it well, but the point is to do it no matter what
Julia Cameron, The Right to Write: An Invitation and Initiation into the Writing Life
Something different today. I’m joining in with a group of writers for Five Minute Friday where we’re given a prompt (this week it’s adapt) and write for five minutes about it. Apparently I didn’t read the rules well enough, because when I went back to the site after I wrote for five minutes I noticed that it’s supposed to be a free write with no editing. Oops. I’m not sure I can do that. At the very least I have to come back and add a quote and a photo. And editing, well, editing is part of the fun for me. Confession: I did do a light edit on this post. Anyway, here’s my very first Five Minute Friday post.
I’m at the bottom of the hill when I remember I forgot to bring my camera. Should I just carry on and run the errands I set out to do and forget about the one creative thing I planned for this afternoon?
Not a chance. I double back up the hill and head toward home to get my camera.
I lamented, when we moved here four years ago, the loss of my yard in Washington, and the neighbourhood we lived in where flowers were abundant and something was always in bloom. I could go on a photo walk just by stepping foot outside the door, and when I was in the mood for something more, there were beautiful parks with an abundance of botanical treasure just minutes away.
It’s not that way now. I have a yard and a small front flower bed, but nothing to the extent I once had. Parks are different here; I still miss the parks in Washington.
Today, tired of photographing lilacs and columbine and the few blooms in my yard, I set out to visit my favourite local park—one that has a bit of flora that delights me. There, I sit on the ground, pay attention, quiet my mind, and look for magic.
In time, I move on, and come across a woman sitting at a bench with a notebook in front of her. She’s writing and I keep a respectful distance so as not to disturb her. I’m reminded of an intention I set when we lived in Washington to spend a few hours, now and then, writing in a park down the street from where we lived. I never did it. Life was busier then.
I rest my elbows on a rock, lean in to get closer to a blossom, click the shutter on my camera, and set a new intention to come here. It’s not the quiet and beautiful Soos Creek Botanical garden; it’s the familiar park I spent time in when my children were small.
It’s different; I’m different. I think we can work something out.