May Flower(s)

It's a peculiar thing to become suddenly aware of how your body and mind subconsciously attune themselves to time. Like the feeling that makes your gut heave as you dimly recall that you were supposed to do something later that afternoon, but you double-booked.  Or, like seasonal allergies, people find themselves inappropriately yet inexplicably gloomy during the vibrant spring.  Lately, my hands have taken to clamoring for the keyboard, and my mind has been restless without expression.  I checked my last post: April 27th.  As I type this, it's May 22nd.  What a peculiar thing it is.

These days, when I write, everything feels rusty.  The words look clunky and the phrases sound creaky.  My hands used to battle to keep up with my head; now they tap impatiently for my head to dig out fresh thoughts to shape.  I suppose everyone feels this way about something, some activity that brought you rest when restless and fulfillment when finished.  But you stop - perhaps Life so rudely intrudes - and a couple months or years later your body itches to go back and do that thing again.  And so here I am.

Inevitably, I compare my style with the style of others.  I don't think that's all bad.  You learn what's good, what's not so good, what you like, what you don't, what others like, and what they don't.  You trip and fall and skin your metaphoric knee, but you get up, try again, and watch your own style evolve.  I've come to realize that what I like to read most (perhaps because I aspire to write like that one day) are pieces both succinct and vivid, with an intense focus upon one thing yet that tells an entire narrative in the gaps.  I'm not very good at this.  Even when I take pictures, the composition I consider to be "great" eludes me.  I lose the trees for the forest.  Whether it's photography or writing, my mind paints across a wide canvas, but everything becomes hazy upon zooming in.  What I've learned from new and old friends is that only trying can get you closer to where you want to be.  You have to try and keep trying to find who you are and what the story you want to tell is.  And so here I go.

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This is a story about a flower in a garden.  She is one of many in this garden, and only just recently peeked her head out of the soil.   She's soft-spoken, but not timid; both quiet and cooperative.  Sensei is the wind that directs this flower to bend.  So she bends and bows to and fro. She stands up when asked to, dances when prodded to, but sings on her own.  She comes in with her grandmother, always early, always wearing a colorful outfit that clashes yet complements - fashion only children can pull off.

I hadn't been in this church before; the first time was this month.  Sensei tells me that this flower used to have a companion, another flower to join hands with as she bent and laughed and sang.  He's left the class.  If she's lonely, it doesn't show on her face, but there's something slightly sad in the way she silently climbs up the chair to sit down in it, the way her legs don't reach the floor and when she leans back, how the chair threatens to swallow her whole.  The only flower in the room that hasn't yet blossomed.

As we push on through the class, though, she bares her teeth in radiant smiles and her laughs sprinkle the room with light.  She fidgets and repeats, touches her nose when she hears 

"nose,"

and I'm in awe.  She comprehends.  The foreign word, heard only once a week, flies through her ear to tickle her brain, causing the synapses to flash with brilliance and her nervous system acts, though she's only vaguely aware, to lift her finger to tap her nose.  She flashes a tiny-toothed grin at our praise.  The miracle of growth is too lofty for me. In these little ways, in these little minutes, I watch this flower unfurl her petals a little bit.  

She, barely a bud, still thrums with energy.  Simple, blinding life.  How much potential is stored in the mystery of her genes, potential to create, to learn, to give and receive love?  Only time will tell.  As the four words buzz like neon behind my eyes, she clambers down and nestles herself in the folds of her grandmother's shirt.  They stand up together, her ばあちゃん swapping the last dregs of stories with the other church seniors.  Hand in hand in hand, the flower and her little brother are led out by their grandmother to put on their shoes.  I wave and she glances at me before waving back.  

"Bye bye."  

She's gone.  

また来週、ね。