I've been going to a writing workshop every week, a quaint little setting at a man called Ron's house. There are usually between four and seven of us there to write. I arrive every Tuesday after a half hour commute through the rolling hills of the Austin back roads, trying at all costs to avoid rush hour traffic. I usually arrive straight from the rowing center, fatigued, wearing a Texas Rowing Center shirt (which the other workshopees must think is the only article of clothing I own at this point) and I let myself into this charming house, to be greeted by Tess, a dark gray standard poodle. She licks me a few times, sniffs me, and finally walks next to me towards the kitchen, where I find a countertop full of food -- pasta, salad, sauce, bread, sliced avocados, iced tead, hot tea, water... On certain tuesdays, I get there just in time to smell the fresh brownies that have just been pulled out of the oven and will be ready to fill my belly when we take a writing break later in the evening.
I make my way into the back room, what looks like it used to be a porch that got walled in, and find a spot, not always the same spot, at a dinner table. As close to 7:15 as possible, sometimes later when we get distracted with some conversation about the happenings of that day, we all plant our feet flat on the ground, let our arms hang loose by our sides, close our eyes, and are led through a short group meditation. I've never been one to meditate and have never thought myself to be too good at it, but there's something about Ron's voice, or my level of fatigue by that point of the day and the energy I put into staying awake to hold my head up while my closed eyes try to take me into a seated nap, that allows me take some weight off my shoulders as he walks us through the mental exercise. We always finish it up by rubbing our hands fast fast fast super fast creating heat, creating energy faster faster, and then gently placing them over our eyes. At this point, happy I washed the boathouse filth off my hands before I sat down, as I feel the weight of my hands, of that heat resting on my eyeballs, at that point, I am ready to open my eyes and pick up my pen.
He usually gives us a prompt, or an object, or a word, or something to "do." The rule is to keep the pen moving, whether you are inspired by the prompt or decide to go off in your own direction, it doesn't matter as long as the pen is moving. He gives us anywhere between 10 and 20 minutes, and off we go, into what usually, if you are having a good day, seems like too little time to get everything you want down on paper.
Below are three little things I've written in class. As you read them, keep in mind that (a) some are fiction, some are not, some parts are true, and some parts are not, (b) there is zero room or time for editing (c) there is not always enough time to wrap up. Some might sound familiar, and some might seem totally random (because you don't always know where the piece is going until the time is up).
1. Given all the awful and sad stories we've been hearing about people losing their homes to the Bastrop, TX fires, think about five things you would take with you if you had to leave your house. Now pick one from that list, the one that stands out the most, and write about it.
A box. I never even cared enough to buy or make a nice box. It's an old shoe box. And it's purple. It matches nothing in the room, but for some reason I never seemed to care, because it was always a place for all that stuff, all those things that your mom might call junk, or maybe all those things that if you spent your entire life collecting could get you nominated for that show Hoarders. But it's all that stuff that no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to be able to crumple, to toss into the trash can with last night's dinner leftovers without the desire to pull it back out. It's stuff like a race number. Why in the world would I want a piece of paper with the number 5335 on it? If my house was burning, what will I do with this? Further ignite the fire? But how can I not keep a box that holds this crinkled piece of paper, probably still covered in swear? How can I get myself to leave in the flames something that took me almost a year to achieve? Months of waking up at 6 to run, to lace up my sneakers and try to beat the Texas heat. Months of rolling out of bed when I wanted nothing more than to keep my eyes closed at least until the sun came up. All this just to show up in San Francisco one chilly Sunday morning at 5:45, once again, before the sun even thought to poke its head out, and wear this piece of paper. To wear this piece of paper and do the very thing I had been doing for months. But this time, with the number 5335, for 26.2 miles, at a pace I never thought I could hold for so long. And all this to cross the finish line three hours and thirty three minutes later and qualify for one of the most sought out marathon by crazy runners like myself. Crazy runners who keep this wrinkled number, medal, and memory in a purple show box that cannot and will not be left in flames.
Of course there are other things in this box, other perhaps "useless" things in a stranger's eyes. Stuff like other numbers. I miss you letters. More pictures. Happy notes. Sad notes. Love notes. A love note from eight grade. How can you make it for more than ten years with a goofy letter from a goofy boy asking you to circle "yes" I like you like him too, or "no" I think you have cooties? Ten years of holding onto all this to let it be slowly devoured by the hot orange fire? Hell no. Let's just say it's a good thing that letter made it into the purple shoebox with number 5335, because the purple box is coming under my arm when I walk out the door.
2. Think about the 5 objects you love the most in your life. Pick one and write about it.
The numbers go up to twelve, the way the Romans would write to twelve. Why twelve? And why Roman? I never really thought to ask, to be honest, perhaps because when someone you love and you'll miss, and you know you'll never have enough words to tell them how much they've changed you and how much they'll stay with you, when that type of person gives you a gift off her own hand, you simply don't stop to ask them at that very moment, why twelve? You also forget to ask, why do the numbers star counting at 2 instead of 1? Or why is the four written with four I's and not and I and a V as real Romans would write it? Please forgive me if I can't come up with all the answers to the flaws of this beautiful treasure.
The day she gave it to me, the sterling silver could have blinded me on the spot if the sun had hit it at just the right angle, but the deep blue strip that ran through the middle of it, opaque yet vibrant, must have caught the ray that saved my eyesight. Perfectly round, simple, curious, I had always admired it on her right middle finger. We used to laugh about what an important finger that was to have an illumination band wrapped around it... just in case the moment ever presented itself to tell someone off with class.
I often wonder if it was pure luck or one of those curious things about life when we discovered that my right middle finger happened to be the same width as hers the day she took it off her hand, gave it one last glance and told me to keep it. I promised her I would never lose sight of it as I held her close for the last time until... well, until we met again. An entire continent would separate us, and before the days of facebook and email, we had no choice but to revel in the cheesiness of this ring.
It had been over two years, and the only time I could remember taking it off my right middle finger was when a bitter official at an indoor track race had instructed me to take it off if I wanted to stay in the race. I slowly pulled it off as I marched to the starting line, thinking about how naked I felt without it. I promptly placed it back on its spot after completing my race, and went back to never taking it off -- not to shower, sleep, or row. My finger was pasty white beneath the millimeters of skin that it covered, while the rest of my hand turned toasty brown in the summer heat.
I'll never forget the morning that I walked out of the house, softly playing with it loosely in my right hand when it escaped my grip, and rolled, rolled, rolled away. I thought I saw it roll into the bushes by the car. I searched, and searched, got to school late because of it, came home and searched again, and finally, devastated, left it for lost under the pile of autumn leaves I had forgotten to rake. Was I giving up too easily? Should I be searching the yard more methodically? But no matter how hard I looked, how thoroughly I stared at every inch of grass in front of me, it was nowhere to be found.
The cruel Boston winter came and went, snow piled and melted. One particularly sunny spring morning, as I walked to my car where icicles slowly melted off its tail, something caught my eye. Something shiny peered out from underneath the pile of leaves that still remained unraked. It was unreal, like a sailor lost at sea finding his way home.
It's not quite as shiny anymore. Or quite as round anymore. The blue is not so blue anymore. But the number one is still missing, the four is still four I's, the numbers still go up to 12, and ten years later, somehow, it still sits on my right middle finger.
3. We each pulled out a page from a calendar. Each page had a picture of a shoe with a brief description of it. My shoe was a red pump, called Ravishing Ruby. Write whatever comes.
They called her Ravishing Ruby because she could turn heads left and right even if she walked by in her sweatpants and yesterday's make up, slowly spilling her coffee and looking around her to make sure no one had seen her clumsy moment.
But her fans never seemed to notice these details. Men fantasized about her and women envied her. She walked tall her in her five-foot-eight athletic body and carried herself flawlessly on her red stiletto shoes. How was it that she could make red match just about anything?
The red of her shoes was a distracting a sight as the kindness in her eyes. Wide open, as if trying to ensure she didn't miss a second of the life in front of her, with a small wrinkle in each corner as she softened her glare to emanate comfort and understanding.
She easily gained the trust of her clients, although she never dared called them clients. Client had such a harsh ring to her ever attentive and all absorbing ears.
Top of her class at the Harvard Med School Department of Psychiatry, she had every reason, or every stereotypical right to call them clients, appointments, chart numbers, and only vaguely show interest in their latest problems as she peered at them over her yellow legal note pad. But not Ruby. Instead, she leaned in with utmost desire, showing more than her perfectly round nose, to hear every word, every story she was told as if it were the script of the next Oscar-winning thriller.
