Workshop

By Kristi Paxton

I should be leaving the house Now. Windows are open. Birds are singing, and my husband is still snoozing on my watermelon couch (He says it’s pink, but it’s not) with my white quilt and my dog at his feet. Same place I found him upon my return from our writers workshop yesterday. We bored our way into oblivion last night with the screen flickering colors across our skin. Peaceful.

When I  drove down our lane after  workshop, I saw the first purple phlox In bloom in my “other people’s garden,” the spot I claimed back from the woods and crammed with reject plants pulled from plots belonging to more organized gardeners. The purple phlox argues with the pink and orange lilies, and they give in. Together they are perfect, dissonant as a chord in a jazzy song. I can’t remember the song’s name, but I’ll think of it.

For Now my brain is tired and full of all the stuff a writer must do and remember. Blog, Facebook, find an agent, beg your way into publishing, and write the ”thang.” Really, all I want to do is write. And so I do, and mostly it’s aimless joy. Now.

After only one day at workshop, I’m the cartoon character. You know, the famous one (cat?) who is in danger and sweating bullets, literal droplets or bullets pouring from his watering can skin. Only pages of words are pouring from my skin holes. A hard knot takes the place that once held my heart. This too will pass.

Today after another workshop day, I’ll drive down the lane again. Maybe the white lily will be in bloom, the one I forgot to plant last fall. I’d found it this May in its overturned plastic pot back by the barn. There was a bit of green showing, so I plopped it into a leftover clay vessel.

And I’ll climb onto my watermelon couch and heal once more. I’ll get up in the morning to write, and I’ll be late to workshop again.

Will another flower surprise me again at the end of the day?

And repeat.

Now

By Kristi Paxton

June 15, Nic Wallenda walked a tightrope suspended across the widest part of Niagara Falls. An historic moment. Each step he understood the concept of Now.

The biggest trouble of our times is that we are never where we are,” said a writer friend a while back. For a moment I wondered what he meant. Then I regretted eating the entire container of *salted caramel gelato, simultaneously dreading the dirty house I must clean…soon. I understood his comment.

We are masters at regret—thinking about the past, the splurge, the nasty comment. Another writer friend recently landed on the Dr. Phil show with his wildly popular book titled “Secret Regrets.” Out of several blogs Kevin Hansen launched, Secret Regrets was the one that touched a collective nerve. We all think back to what we should not have done. Think back.

And, we are excellent at planning our futures. To the right of this keyboard is a pile of lists, (I just thumbed through and counted nine ratty pages) tasks I want to complete, books I want to read, blogs I want to visit or create in the future. Many of my listed items are outdated events now, unaccomplished goals. Perhaps I should make another list: stuff I did not accomplish. Most of my future plans can now go into my heaping pile of regrets.

But am I good at embracing The Now? Not so much, but I’m getting better. After a recent trip to the honking chaos of New York City, my husband and I enjoyed the pastoral drive from airport to front door. We parked the car at the end of our lane, got out and paused to breathe Iowa air. Suitcase in hand, I said to my husband, “Look at that butterfly, how he’s spread flat on the leaf!” He was as if mounted in a collection. We both dropped our bags, he digging for a camera, I powering up my cell phone. For 15 minutes, the butterfly waited while we enjoyed his stillness and snapped his portrait. Obviously the winged creature was dead. But no. As soon as we put the cameras away, he fluttered up and away.

When asked what he thought about as he walked across Niagara Falls, Nic Wallenda said, “a lot of praying, that’s for sure.”

*Note: Salted Caramel Gelato; Talenti Brand; Hy-Vee; expensive. And you’re welcome.