Telling stories Part II

I lost myself this past weekend; not literally, but, rather, in words. In stories. Most of them non-fiction, but stories all of them. Stories about people —

• starting over in a new country (Peace by Chocolate by Jon Tattrie; the story of Hadhad family who fled Syria, landed in Nova Scotia and now employ many locals in their chocolate factory);
• acting stories of drama and comedy and, in so doing, reflecting the universal emotions of our lives back at us from the small screen (How to Save a Life: The inside story of Grey's Anatomy [mega hit TV show] by Lynette Rice);
• overcoming the inner voice that says 'No, don't do it; you're afraid to do it; don't do it; say no' (Year of Yes by Shonda Rhimes, who created Grey's Anatomy, among a host of hit TV series, including the recent Netflix hit Bridgerton); and 
• coming into their own by opening themselves up in the face of love (Voices of Summer by Rosamunde Pilcher). 

That was a lot of reading for me and it took, literally, all weekend. I neglected pretty much everything else to be immersed in these stories. None of them is high literature; every one of these books is a good read; and I lost myself in each one. It was a most enjoyable weekend. 

No matter the genre, I love a good story and, recently, I have turned my hand to writing some fiction myself — a 4-part series of inter-connected flash fiction (stories in under 500 words). Each piece in the series was 'sparked' by a prompt; part II's prompt illustrates this post. Read Telling Stories Part I: Grasping here. Part II: Gardening is below. 

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GARDENING

My neighbour, Maxine, wrote me the note that I’ve kept on my fridge all these years. It’s faded a bit from the sunshine that comes in through the kitchen window, but the message remains clear and strong. Jesus! I hadn’t been so strong over those same years. Unless you count simply getting up in the morning and getting through the days. If that’s being strong, then, I was god damn super strong woman.

Maxine had also died, though much less dramatically than my child. No fire. No flames. No smoke for Maxine. For her, just a quiet fade into the darkness while sleeping. Lucky her. For the rest of us, it was a shock to lose her so quietly, for she had lived loud while she walked this earth. And grown beauty out of the small garden she tended on her tiny property. She always said that size doesn’t matter; what matters is the brightness we bring to the size. What matters is the act of creating something to pay attention to, to nurture. Especially during times of destruction or despair.

Her whole life had been an endless series of losses, which, I had to hand it to her, she bore with the grace and wisdom of a true gardener. When a hole appeared in a bed where daffodils should have ruffled their trumpets in the gentle spring breeze — and when I would have wailed in outrage, Maxine simply shrugged, hoped the squirrels had enjoyed their winter feast of her bulbs, and then filled the hole with a plant from elsewhere that needed a new home. Unlike my own smudged chipped glass, Maxine’s was always half full.

In her garden, there was no master design. She loved to putter and prune and even to plan, but only because she did not hold herself to it. The planning simply gave her something to focus on during the long winter months. She was smart that way, knew how to occupy herself and keep her dark thoughts at bay. I should learn from that, but I haven’t yet.

Come the end of winter and just as soon as it was possible to be easily out of doors again, Maxine could be seen stooping over her flower beds to see what was poking its nose up through the warming earth and noticing where new holes existed to be filled with her green thumb and indomitable spirit. The world went about its shitty ways, but Maxine simply talked to the little green shoots in her garden, gently cajoling them towards the sky. She always said they responded, but I don’t know. What can a little green shoot understand from an old woman making noise in its direction? Then again, who am I to question her technique? Maxine went quietly into the night, while I continue to rage my way through the days.

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Land acknowledgement: I respectfully recognize that I live on the original lands of Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota and Dene peoples, and on the homeland of the Métis Nation.