I read a recent post; something to the effect that the mind works 24-7 until I sit down to write. How true is that?
As I am busy at my job, cleaning residents’ rooms at the lodge, my mind is checking out rabbit trails. I might see a photo or a painting, the subject matter sparking a thought. My mind focuses on the idea, zooming in close, enlarges it, and dashes off down a hidden path.
By the time I grab a scrap of paper to record the fragment of an image, it has faded or diminished or simply evaporated in the heat of the day-to-day of life.
A few weeks ago I needed to find some particular photos. I had been included in my sister’s family gathering but I couldn’t recall how far back I had to reach to find them. The day in question had become a drizzly and chilly one at the acreage. We were enjoying a barbecue and had resorted to huddling in groups, each wrapped in warm coats. Along with the cow moose at the water trough, the flickers hanging on the basket of suet and the squirrels quarreling about their share, I was able to snatch a few spontaneous shared moments. There is Leanne with Laura, Carolynn cuddled up with Auntie Joyce. Freeze frame: warm moments.
While I was browsing I revisited some other images. How could I forget the demolition of the Mount View Lodge and the former high school building just blocks away? I have it faithfully recorded in brilliant colour; shot after shot from various angles.
The high school became a brief two-year log in my history. I watched through the locked fence: the remnant of the home economics classroom and the beloved library gaping and empty. The rubble resembled a bombed-out edifice. The smaller building next door, the "Taj Mahal," with a motto proudly proclaiming in vivid hues, “Hope is the flower that inspires,” still stood proudly erect in my snapshots.
All of this to say, if I assign myself Saturday morning to write, assemble my stack of loose-leaf paper and my clipboard, settle at the table or more likely the corner of the couch with a coffee steaming, my mind cramps and refuses to divulge anything of interest. Maybe that is the key: it doesn’t respond to regimented assignments in my free time.
While I was still in the house, the dining room table was my chosen spot. I didn’t force it. Waiting, I listed a few topics. I reached for my notebook filled with quips and words of wisdom penned by other authors that spoke to me. That too was a distraction, beckoning me back to the bookshelf.
For a brief stretch I kept a gratitude jar, a suggestion from an author that I admire. My friend was given a gratitude journal to help her focus on the positive things. I thought a jar might be more spontaneous for me. I had the last of mom’s canning jars on a storage shelf my brother had constructed for the purpose. Among the row on row of Mason jars, I found a retro Nabob coffee jar, with a glass top.
I kept it on my table, along with my writing paraphernalia. Paper, notepads, pens, dictionary. The idea was to add daily, a positive from my life that I could be thankful for, despite all the challenges clamouring for attention.
On a tiny slip of paper it was easy to place a few phrases. Not really an appointment to write. When I packed up in preparation to move to condo living, my jar became just another item in an overstuffed box, labelled “kitchen.”
My sisters and a friend helped to organize my kitchen. The jar sits high on a shelf, behind the coffee and tea, forgotten. Just now as I reach for my nightly doze of Sleeptime tea, I can see the Nabob jar pushed into a corner.
Maybe my next assignment is to take it down, open the top and spill the contents out onto my tablecloth, scraps of paper and fragments of thoughts. Perhaps each note, like the photos I scrolled through will ignite a fire, transporting me to a time and place I need to revisit.
– Joyce Hoey is a longtime Gazette columnist
