October 22, 2018
Awhile back my husband and I had a fight, sort of. We like to build fires in our fire pit, sit on the benches and have coffee some chilly mornings. He collects old logs and cuts up wood so that we always have a ready supply. One of his fave things.
Off to the side, not next to his wood saves, was an old chunk of log, a leftover piece from sometime long ago. It struck my imagination every time I walked past it and I just knew there was something interesting I’d do with it someday. Someday. But it’d been there for years.
So, on one particular morning I, in my woolly robe, over sized slippers, coffee and journal in hand, join him around the fire, only to see The Log in the fire. It quickly becomes My Log, then My Favorite Log. The Something I was saving for the Great Thing I was going to do with it! It’s importance to me grew with each moment I expressed my shock. Well, expressed my mad.
His only response was, “What! What’s the big deal? That thing’s been sitting there for years.” He did pull it out of the fire, though.
Well, I liked that log and couldn’t seem to get over the hump of being shocked, hurt, and angry.
Fussing and fuming wasn’t helping me, even hours later. I needed to redeem this and refocus . Tell myself a new story.
I sat with paper and pen and pondered why I liked that stupid old log anyway. Maybe I should write a bit of free verse. Here it is.
Why do I like you?
Just a chuck of old wood,
once a tree, now nothing.
Knobby, chopped up parts
sticking out, jutting,
Why do I like you?
You are like no other.
Once a tree, gracing my yard,
Then old, then discarded.
Arms and legs firewood
till there was only you,
No taller than my knees.
Falling bark, wrinkled skin.
No longer tall, proud, powerful.
Some call you ugly, useless,
never beautiful again.
Here – sit there now, hold these flowers
and let the rawness of you –
present the beauty of them.
And reading my poem made me laugh and I was happy again.
Creating something new can chase away our crabbies and show us beauty again and we can laugh even at ourselves.
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