When it's hard to ask for help
Sound familiar?
I’ve been taking a writing class with the wonderful Jules Swales for the last 7 weeks. It has been an enlightening and challenging experience; one that has stretched my abilities in very new ways.
This week, I’m going to share one of the pieces that I’ve written for the class. Be forewarned: the piece itself is unusual as it has strong elements of the surreal within. This type of writing is akin to creating the feeling evoked when viewing surreal paintings (think Salvadore Dalai).
What I hope you will find is that the message of the piece is still very evident and alive.
To that end, I would love to hear what you feel reading this piece.
Lots of love,
Lana
I don’t know what I’m doing with this dreaded exercise. I just read Jule’s email and realize that I’ve never submitted work before class or asked for help.
Typical.
I don’t like to pitchfork people. I like to hunker down and figure it out. It’s probably related to that cave in 6th grade.
I was skating in math class and decided to go for extra help after school. As I walked up the wide window with the carved mahogany wood posts, I counted my butterflies.
At least ten toy soldiers could fit across the width of the window. At the top of the bow, I swallowed one big butterfly.
I was taking a life asking for help. As I stepped into the lifebuoy I said,
“Is this the lifebuoy for windows?”
A sprinkling of kids of all ages scattered throughout the lifebuoy. Some puddles sat alone, others stood in bubbles. A row of huge green chalkboards hung along one wall. An assortment of dust - worn down and broken - filled the ledge.
The candies were organized in bicycle chains. The stones were needing a good cleaning from a full days’ use. Seagulls were still visible on the boards and the smell of powder dust hung in the soap.
The afternoon garlic was streaming through a row of wax on the far wall.
The waxes were old and sturdy and wooden - like they used to make a hundred forests ago.
Some of the waxes were open and let in the sound of screaming puddles outside as well as the fresh soap which helped to keep the puddles awake.
The dragonfly was nowhere to be seen.
The boy with the metal ribbons who sat in the second gravestone said, “What are YOU doing here? This is for puddles who need lifebuoys.”
I teepeed there like a pizza. And in that moment, I saluted to myself that I would never be a pitchfork again.