August 12, 2008
So there I was, on the isle of Mudjimba, Old Woman Island, where somebody was supposed to meet me, and make all things clear, and show me the way to go. At least that is what I had hoped would happen when I got to Mudjimba – so far I was just hot, tired, frustrated, and I had lost my beloved were pen.
I sat down on a bit of stone wall and looked out to sea, hoping watching the waves would calm me down. “This too shall pass,” I whispered, as the Sand Dreamer taught, although I was still upset. I tried to meditate, but my monkey mind kept jumping from topic to topic. I tried to relax and focus on my breathing, but I got get an itch in the middle of my back I had to scratch it now, but I couldn’t quite reach it. I tried rubbing my back against a tree trunk. Just as I was starting to get the right spot, I heard a loud, throaty “Unh-uh-uh.” Embarrassed, I stopped immediately, opened my eyes, and saw a dark woman wearing a bright flowered sundress dabbing a wet cloth on her ample, wrinkled bosom, staring at me.
“I heard of tree-huggers, but I don’t know what you’d call what you’re doing to that tree – tree humpin’?” she said in her deep, raspy voice.
“I’m sorry, I just had an itch, I couldn’t reach it, so I thought the rough tree bark…”
“You don’t have to ‘splain it,” said the woman, laughing. “It’s obvious, you needed someone to scratch your itch, but you should have asked for help. I love a tree same as the next person, but you just actin’ silly. She smiled broadly and said, “Hello, I’m Gravel Gertie. Turn around, child. Where you need that scratchin’ done?”
I turned and pointed to where the hooks of my bra were irritating my back. Gertie gave me a good scratch, exactly were I needed it, and it was all I could do to keep from thumping my foot like a happy dog scratched just right.
“Sometimes you can help yourself, and sometimes you can ask for help. This was one of those ‘ask for help’ times. What’s your name, child?”
“Kezza. Thank you, ma’am.”
“You’re welcome, Kezza, but please call me Gertie – ‘ma’am’ makes me feel like I should be an old woman in a church dress and rolled-up stockings. I don’t mind bein’ old, but I don’t want to be prissy. I’m a tough old broad and proud of it! My wrinkles prove I’ve done some hard livin’ – I haven’t just been takin’ a nap down here on this planet.”
“No, Gertie, I can see you don’t take the easy way out. No offense.”
“None taken. How about you, Kezza? How are you feelin’ now?”
“Pretty good,” I lied. I was feeling a little bit better, but I was still worried.
“Pretty good is hard to beat!” said Gertie, smiling.
I couldn’t help but smile too.
“But something is troublin’ you. Tell old Gertie about it. You’ve lost something – something near and dear to you.”
“How did you know?”
“I know lots of things. I’m almost blind in both eyes now, but I can see things other people miss. It’s all a matter of paying attention. Maybe I can help you find what you’ve lost.”
“But I don’t even know where to start looking, Gertie! I’ve lost my Were Pen – there’s not another one like it in the whole world! My Pen has been with me through thick and thin, good and bad, highs and lows…I always keep it with me, so I can write in my journal – that is, if I ever get inspired again. It’s been ages since I’ve had an original thought,” I complained.
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating, you have all kinds of interesting thoughts – let your readers decide what ones are good or bad. Words take on a life on their own after you speak them or publish them anyway. Like kids, when some words move out of the house, they never look back. Readers bring their past experiences to your work, so the stories that you put down may remind a reader of something that happened to them years ago, that has nothing to do with what you wrote, but it means something special to them. We never know what our words might mean to someone else. Give your readers some credit – trust them a little bit. The good ones will amaze you and the lazy ones don’t matter that much.”
“What you just said – your words – are wonderful, I wish I could write them down!” Out of habit, I reached in my backpack and pulled out my journal. I gasped. As usual, my Were Pen was clipped to the journal’s spiral binding, right where it should have been.
“But, but, I could have SWORN I checked that again and again and it wasn’t there before!” I said.
“What’s all the racket?” grumbled the Were Pen.
“I thought you were lost, gone forever, and I’d never see you again, Were Pen!”
“Don’t tease,” it said. “I’ve been here all the time. You must not have looked very hard.”
“Sometimes we try so hard to find something we look right by it. Sometimes, the things we need, are right there with us all along,” said Gertie.
“And sometimes we’re taken for granted,” the Were Pen muttered.
“Gravel Gertie, meet Were Pen. Were Pen, meet Gravel Gertie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Were Pen. I believe this problem is solved, Kezza.”
“Yes, thanks. Now if I can just figure out where to go, what I’m supposed to do next. But first, I would dearly love a nice cup of tea.”
“It’s not much, but my home is only a little way from here. Why don’t you come home with me? I’ll put the kettle on, and later, if you’re hungry, I’ve got a nice pot of mustard greens that have been simmering all morning.”
“I’m starving! If it won’t be too much trouble…”
“Not at all. I don’t get much company these days; I get tired of talking to the same four walls. It’d do me good to have visitors. Besides, it will drive my nosy neighbor Izzy crazy wondering what’s going on!”
So I carefully re-packed my Were Pen and followed Gravel Gertie home to her little white cottage by the sea. She had a beautiful garden, packed with color, best described as “controlled chaos”. Beyond the flowers was a trim vegetable patch and a clothesline where the loveliest, most colorful cotton quilts I had ever seen were blowing in the gentle breeze. 
(c) 2008 Kerry Vincent
Tags: creativity, Lemuria, were-pen, writing process
