Snowy Knows All My Secrets

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Daily prompt: Have you ever named an inanimate object? (Your car? Your laptop? The volleyball that kept you company while you were stranded in the ocean?) Share the story of at least one object with which you’re on a first-name basis.

I have struggled with determining the personality of my car so as to properly name it. Her. Him. Three years in its still just a vehicle. I love it, I take care of it, but it remains an it.

I like to name things. Or rather, I like to create stories around things, applying personality traits to everything from critters to the weather; having full conversations with woodland creatures that sit still long enough for me to take their photos. But as I think of it, I have never actually named them, instead referring to them in the familiar as ‘friend.’ I have a particular penchant for turning verbs into nouns by ascribing qualities to places like Distraction and Procrastination. And I am inclined to make up biographies about people I pass on the street; giving them full back stories based solely on how they walk or the expressions on their faces.

Yet naming things that do not move of their own volition eludes me.

Snowy. I have a white teddy bear from my early childhood that has had the fur loved off of him. His name is Snowy. I can’t be certain, though, that I named him.

A previous purple car acquired the name Barney. But it wasn’t I that named it.

Dogs? Yes. Cats? Yes. Children? Of course. Iguanas? Once.

Perhaps, sadly somehow, the answer is no. No, I have not named an inanimate object. But I’ll be okay. I feel no less complete as a result of this shortcoming.

I will chose instead to continue my tete a tete with the rather loquacious Mr. C, our resident cardinal, in my bay tree out back. I will visit Distraction. Again and again, maybe taking a side trip to Productivity once in a while. And I will continue to love my car, whatever its name may be.

Writing Spaces

 

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When I first read the topic for today’s ‘postaday’ my mind instantly went to the right corner of my living room sofa, where the perfect mold of me awaits patiently each day. On the table to my right, an ebony wood Buddha holding a chunk of amethyst is overseeing my efforts, quietly cheering me on, as Buddhas are known to do. Surrounding him are my mug of steaming hot joe, a camera – I never know when I’ll be called outside by the sound of a cardinal or mocking bird for a photo shoot – and one of million journals. To my left one or two of four bite sized doggies snores softly.

A French door leading to the back patio swings in the gentle morning breeze as the sun reflects off the glass bouncing back into the living room. Occasionally the breeze brings with it the rich smell of the earth, still damp from the previous day’s storms. My painted toenails peek above my laptop screen. Somewhere nearby the coffee maker makes clicking sounds. The light and energy are good here.

But I also saw myself lying on my belly, propped on my elbows with my iPhone wedged between my hands, recounting the day’s events while in India. At a Starbucks on that same device in London as I waited out a spate of rain. I saw myself reaching into my purse for that flat little notebook I bought in a museum, that receives the freshest ideas that I may or may not act upon later. I saw myself sitting on my yoga mat in the middle of class begging that perfect sentence to stay somewhere within reach as I simultaneously tried to let go of everything.

My writing space is fluid, portable. It is my mind, my imagination. It’s between the ears and beyond my vision. It starts with a ping brought on by a word, a sight, a muse, then I just follow it. My writing space is everywhere. I couldn’t write of travel, insights, enchantment and experiences if I stayed in one place. My preferred typing space, however,  is in that light filled living room surrounded by four little dogs, the sound of birds singing in my backyard and the hum of the refrigerator in the next room.

But then, I haven’t had the opportunity to lift the lid of my laptop at a café in France yet.