I have nothing to write about, the morning seems empty and full of nothing. Still I want to write, I want to spill the beans that I know must be in there somewhere, just below the dusty sleep cloud that is still lingering around my head. What would you write about? What if you were five and you were handed a blank piece of paper, a big fat red pencil, and asked to tell a story. The teacher gave you some crayons to illustrate your made up tale, and then it was play time!
When I was a little girl I used to write stories, and they all began exactly the same way. ” one day I was walking down the street….” I don’t remember what came next, but I do remember sitting at the kitchen table concocting stories, eager to finish them and share them with my Mom. That’s how I am. eager to finish and share. Maybe no one want’s to read my tale of nothing. Look, that’s fine. I just write as a spiritual practice, y’all. I take that back, it’s not fine! PLEASE READ THIS!
One day I was walking down the street, I was looking for something. I had lost something I needed a very long time ago, something big , and something the size of what was missing. I had been searching all my life, and this was considered a long time by some, a long time to search for something you needed. People would often offer to help me look, and I was so overcome with gratitude that I would let them , and then after a long day of finding nothing, I would take them out to a fancy dinner with at least five courses as we discussed what I could do differently next time to track down my slippery jewel. ” Maybe you should wear a disguise!” one well meaning friend offered while we drank saki out of crystal and sipped miso from bamboo. I wasn’t crazy about this idea, it suggested what I was looking for didn’t want to be found, at least not by me. I tried it anyway, desperate to be reunited with whatever it was that was missing. The problem was that I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for. I had found it before, but I lost it just as I began to get to know it. There was no hanging on to this treasure, and it would disappear just as soon as I noticed it’s presence.
I wore a blonde wig, green metal rimmed glasses, and a purple and orange floral print mumu the size of my car one day when I was walking down the street. Today I was alone, and the street was empty and used mostly by wild turkeys and their turkletts as a short cut to the important places wild things frequently visit. I walked right down the center of this street, my eyes scanning the periphery, my mind tripping over itself trying to conjure up a new strategy. A bigger, better, shinier, wetter way. A more perfect way to find IT.
Eventually, I got tired of falling down. I couldn’t come up with anything, and my psyche was bruised from the mental wrestling. I began to chase turkeys. I pulled off my mumu, wig, and glasses, and I ran after a mama gobbler and her goblets. They began to fly a few feet off of the ground, showing off their wing span and disdain for gravity. I began to skip instead of run because they weren’t going very fast, and I didn’t actually want to catch them. My arms swung from side to side and my head bounced on my neck, light now after saying uncle to the fruitless search. One foot hopping in front of the other, my mind caressing the sky, the space between the turkeys wings. It was then I realized I had found what I was looking for once again, and again I began grasping to keep it, and again it was gone.
It was really nothing.