The lilies reminded me of Monet. My mind wandered from Monet and the Impressionists to Pointillism. Pointillism is the precise application of primary colored brush strokes. The result is abstract when viewed closeup. At a distance, the brain mixes the colors forming images. It’s science. From afar, the single blobs merge and make sense. I thought about perspective for several miles. A small area on a canvas is simply color. Similarly, a moment marks time, but what comes before and after it creates the story. We can be mindful of each moment, but the whole is essential for the narrative.
This concept excited me. I have been unable to write for a long while, overwhelmed with ideas and life-changing experiences, some beautiful, some not. I didn’t know where to start, so I didn’t. Maybe this was the place to start, I thought. Start here with a single dot of raw color?
My step was lighter as I considered writing a little bit about lilies. I moved along the trail, which became a boardwalk, a slippery boardwalk due to torrential rain the night before. The boardwalk was elevated, so the view was above where one would naturally be. It was an interesting perspective. Elevated spiritually? Emotionally? Elevated wasn’t an adjective I would use for my mood. Slippery? Maybe, in a pinch.
A little further along the trail, the boardwalk eased to a soft footpath covered with a thick layer of needles. A dense forest replaced the swamp. The pines were plentiful and tall. I looked up and felt dizzy. I liked the enormity of the space. I felt small, not insignificant, but I understood I was a small part of something vast. I lay down on the fragrant bed of needles as if submitting. The ground was cool and damp.
This was it, I realized, laughing. I don’t know how this blob of words will fit into the bigger story, but this is where I will start. Here on the forest floor, gazing up at the canopy from beneath a fern.