A picture speaks a thousand words
- cherylmurfin
- Sep 19
- 4 min read
We took a day off from walking when we got to Hongu.
In the same spirit of rest and rejuvenation, I share with you the photos from that day and more writing from the road.
Writing from the road
One of the prompts today was a small packet of colored waxed strings. The invitation to mold whatever came to mind with them, then write. I don't have Joe's creation, but his process is hilarious!
Out of my imagination
by Joe Shapiro
These are the little zooshuskers that have come out of my imagination. Not just of my mind but rather of my hands as well. The two working in concert, each riffing off the other. First hands, feeling the silky tackiness of the stringy things, then mind saying “yes and“ to this and suggesting a squishing together of ends, a crossing over, a melding of waxy flesh into flesh.
Then fingers accepting the invitation, meeting ends together without care for the body of the loop that might form. And eyes seeing a form that feels familiar, leaning into the idea of what? Maybe it’s an aardvark? And hands going with that but finding instead a sea slug.
And then mind says good enough! We have more string! Let’s keep going! And one by one hands pulling strings from their birthplace on clear plastic sheeting. Once freed, eyes searching for serendipity in the slippery shapes sliding against themselves.
Finding two nascent cotyledons to which mind asks for golden daisy petals; a blue serpent coiled over on itself which demands the life of yet another blue fellow; an abstract double lambda negotiating a near infinite hairpin racetrack - in jet black of course; and a lovely cave painting quadruped dressed up in green that hands delighted in - until, prompted by mind, they tried to add a tail and kinked the sinewy shape into a tail truly wagging the dog.
A moment of dismay and then the pause - the seeing of expectation - the letting go and redoubling the effort of non effort - of welcoming the weed as a flower and listening to hear and see what it may desire to grow into itself. A neon orange hoop in which to snuggle? Why certainly! How about another in yellow at right angles to pop out into full on three space? Does it work?
I shall not judge but rather pull the last remaining bendy bit - now become a black accent to the sea slug and giving it wings.
Gardening with Leo
by Ruth Purcell
The backyard about the street was small, but was put to many uses.
In the winter, Leo would flood it for an ice rink. I'd come home from school, put on my
skates, and work on my form. Just after dark, Leo would get home, and if he wasn't too
tired, would put on his hockey skates and skate with me while Mom finished dinner. I'm
guessing something with hamburger, tomatoes and possibly corn.
In the summer, 1/3 of the yard was given over to growing vegetables. Tomatoes, carrots,
lettuce, and my favorite, kohlrabi. Along the house was a bed for what Leo called mom's
flowers. Mostly petunias. She was fond of the red and white variety.
Long after Mom was gone, Leo was living alone but still gardening. I was 200 miles
away. After he was diagnosed with cancer, I took every 5th week off of work to be with
him.
We did not ice skate, but we did garden where we would squabble about the proper
placement and depth of seeds and plants. I always had a hard time visualizing the future
and had a tendency to crowd things, and later, I had a hard time thinning them.
These disagreements were mostly good-natured. I cherish these weeks now, gardening,
thrifting, drinking coffee on the driveway, driving around Appleton at night to look at
Christmas lights.
Although we knew his death was coming, he had been broadcasting it for weeks, it was
still hard.
He took his last breath looking locking his clear blue eyes with me and my sister Sara,
looking back and forth panicked. I said go to the lights. And he did. This was in October.
It was a long sad winter for me.
In the spring I was working in my own garden. Losing myself in planting impatiens. I
heard a voice over my shoulder close to my ears saying, “You're planning those too close together, Rudie.” I felt the familiar combination of an annoyance suffused with love. He
was there. He was watching. He still took an interest in what I was doing, here on earth,
in my garden.
"It's going to be fine, Dad."
And it was.
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