revenge of the were pen

 I went into the little kitchen and put on the tea kettle.  While I waited for the water to get hot enough, I thought about all the things I had been learning the past few months in Lemuria.  I smiled, thinking of Gail’s horses, and June’s trees, and Jill’s weavings, and Lori’s mandalas, and Thalia’s crayon rainbow, Imogen’s lilacs, Anita Marie’s friendly ghosts, Genece’s sleeping snow leopard, Heather’s “There’s a good lass!” encouragements, and so much more.  It had been a rich season.  I could sip from this Well of Mnemosyne many times and still find it refreshing. 

I recall the joy of joining Soul Food Cafe, becoming a raven, winning a Laurel Crown.  I dared to share a story, a piece of stained glass, wrote 3 identity poems, all different, all generously received and commented.  And then, the gift of the muse, my were pen character – birthed by the Enchanteur’s Journey – discovered in the catacombs – and another gift character, Gravel Gertie, the wise woman, who met me at Mudjimba Beach…

   But where was Gertie?  I looked at her chair, but it was empty.  There was her tea cup, still warm and fragrant with essence of tangerine, some wheat toast crumbs on a plate, but no Gertie.

   “Looking for someone?” asked a familiar voice.
   I turned, and there she was – my were pen.
   “Have you seen Gertie?” I asked.
   “Seen her? Kezza, I CREATED her. I brought her into this story, and I can take her out.”
   “What are you talking about?”
   “Everyone was liking her so much, they forgot about me.  Even you – don’t deny it! – Especially you!”
   “I thought you were on sabbatical, or resting…”
   “Nice try, but no cigar.  You wanted to get rid of me. Everybody likes the wise old crone archetype, a shortcut to the wisdom of the ages and all that. That Gertie was upstaging me – so - I wrote her out of the script.”
   “WHAT?”
   “You heard me.  No more Gertie, no more wise woman.  You’ve got to figure things out for yourself now.  You are on your own, baby.”
   “But how will I find my way without her?”
   “You didn’t listen to her much.  Gertie was all about telling you to trust your instincts, be true to yourself, you have what you need right inside you.  Were you sleeping through class?”
   “No, I, I was listening, I’m just scared.”
   “So Gertie was wasting her time, you didn’t learn anything.”
   “I learned so much!”
   “You were supposed to learn how to trust your own creative voice.”
   “How do YOU know what Gertie was trying to teach me?  You weren’t here.”
   The were pen lowered its voice and said, laughing, “Pretty good is hard to beat…”
   It sounded just like Gertie!
   “Slowly the light dawns.  Yes, Kezza, I am Gertie, too.  I guess you forgot about my shapeshifting abilities?  I’m a were pen – I write fiction – I can be anything your imagination dreams up.  You just have to use me to put your thoughts down.”
   “You’re Gertie? And my were pen?”
   “Yes.  And we are both products of your creative imagination.  You created us – so, you are Gertie, and your were pen, and anything else you care to think up – all rolled into one big ball of ‘What happens next’.  Gift of the Muse and all that…”
   I jumped when the whistle blew on the tea kettle.  I poured water over a tea bag and sat down.  “This is going to take some time to settle in…”

(c) 2008 Kerry Vincent

where’s my were pen?

July 28, 2008

   I packed, unpacked, and re-packed.  I wanted to be sure I had everything I would need for the trip to Mudjimba.  The only problem was that I had no idea what I’d need, because I wasn’t really sure where I was going.  

   “Triton’s coral? Check. Granola bars? Check. Change of clothes & shoes? Clean socks & underwear?  Check & check. Sunflower seeds? Check.  30 SPF sunscreen? Check. Chocolate? Check.  Ibuprophen? Check. Water bottle? Check. Extra juice? Check.”  I wasn’t sure what would happen after I arrived on the island, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t starve, get sunburned, or be dehydrated.  I was ready for anything. I hoped.

   I swam through the beautiful blue waters and surfaced on a gorgeous beach, perfect temperature, puffy cottonball clouds, bird calls I didn’t quite recognize.  I had landed in paradise!

Mudjuimba Beach, Queensland

 

   I slathered myself with coconut-scented sunscreen and walked along the beach, picking up pretty sea shells, playing tag with the lapping waves.  I followed the shoreline, and as I came around a cove, I saw her:  the Sand Dreaming Woman.

“Drifting with the Current” – Sand Sculpture in St. Petersberg, Russia (Yahoo News Story), by Tatyana Kuznetsova and Vsevolod Averkiev

 

   I wondered who had built this, and why.  A local woman was standing behind the sculpture and said, “She’s a beaut, all right.”

   “Yes,” I agreed, “but who is she?”

   “She’s the Sand Dreamer.  She sits and she watches the tides go in and out.  Day and night, good and bad, then and now, she’s seen it all.  Whatever happens, happens.”

   “What if there’s a storm?  She’ll wash away.”

   “Then she washes away.  Nothing lasts forever.”

   “That’s sad. They should build a wall, like a levee, to protect her for posterity,” I suggested.

   “I don’t think the Sand Dreamer would want that.  The story goes, Sandra Coomer was a real woman, whose motto was, ’This, too shall pass.’  If Sandra were happy, she knew that joy would fade before long.  If she were heart-broken, she knew, if she could just hold on awhile, some day things would be better.  Even on her death bed, Sandra said, “My life has been a great, strange dream, sometimes odd and frightening, sometimes mysterious and beautiful, like the mesmerizing coral reefs under the sea – but I wouldn’t have missed it – even the hard parts – for anything!  Yet, as I always said,  ’This, too shall pass.’”

   I thanked the woman for telling me the Sand Dreamer’s story.  I reminded myself not to waste time, to stop and appreciate the gift of life often.  “Every day is a blessing,” “Nothing last forever,” “This, too, shall pass,”: I wanted to write these sayings down, like a prayer or a chant, before I forgot them.  I dug in my pack and found my journal, but…

   I couldn’t find my Were-Pen!  “Claire, where are you?  Were-Pen, I need you!  I know I packed you! I checked! Where are you?  I can’t write without my pen.”  I was in full panic mode now. 

   I looked at the silent, serene Sand Dreamer sculpture and muttered, “Yeah, I know, ‘this too shall pass’, but you don’t understand. I’m a writer – I live to write and write to live!  

   “WERE-PEN?  WHERE ARE YOU?” I yelled.

tapestry unraveling

September 19, 2008

   Gertie and I were sitting on her back porch, relaxing, drinking iced mango tea and watching clouds form and pass on. 

   “Gertie?”

   “Yes, Kezza?”

   “Isn’t someone supposed to show me my life tapestry while I’m here in Mudjimba Island?”

   “I think Enchanteur did mention that once.”

   “Are you the one who will tell me what it all means?”

   “What do you think, child?”

   “I hate when you answer a question with question.”

   “I know,” said Gertie, chuckling softly.

   “I wonder where my tapestry is?” I said.

   “It might be inside my house, in my old cedar chest.”

   “Really?  It’s been here all along?  Can I see it now?”

   Gertie sighed and took her time answering.  “Yes, dear Kezza, you can see it whenever you want.  But are you sure you want to?  You might see something you don’t like.”

   “Hmmm.  I know, but I’d rather know, so I can deal with it.  Even if it’s bad.”

   “Sometimes we look for answers, and then find out we were happier just asking the questions.”

   “You may be right, but I am a curious cat!”

   “Like Here & Now?

   “Why Not?”

   The animals heard their names, slightly raised their heads, and went back to sleeping in their sunbeams.

   “Wouldn’t it be nice to be content like them, not caring about the future?”

   “Yes, but I’m not like that.  Gertie, please show me my tapestry.”     

   “If you insist.”

   I followed Gertie inside.  She went to her old cedar chest, lifted the lid, and brought out the most beautiful tapestry I had ever seen.

   “Oh!  It’s lovely!”  But I didn’t see any pictures, no clues about me or my future.  “What does it mean?”

   “You see that teensy bead right there, Kezza?”

   “Yes.”

   “That’s you.  Everything else you see – those glorious colors and shapes and textures and patterns – that’s the whole of life.”

   “And I’m just a little speck?”

   “You are tiny, but you are a beautiful pearl, connected to the whole of life itself.  You are part of the design.”

   “Not a very big part.”

   “You don’t have to be big to be part of something wonderful.”

   “Oh,” I said quietly.

   “You sound disappointed, Kezza.”

   “I am.  I thought my tapestry would tell me how I fit in, what to do, where to go next.”

   “You’re here.  That’s enough.”

   “Is it?”

   “What do you think?”

   “You know how I hate when you answer a question with a question…”

   “I know, I know.  It’s part of the Wise Woman Creed – “Never give a straight answer when a mysterious one is more confusing.”

   I looked at the beautiful tapestry – and my tiny part in it.  It was beautiful.  I was part of it.  I tried to convince myself it was enough.  

   …But I still felt like no one would notice if one tiny seed pearl went missing…

 

Kerry Vincent © 2008

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