“Some days punch us in the gut so hard it seems we can feel the whole universe gasp with despair.” ~ Curtis Tyrone Jones

And if you’re a writer, you put pen to paper and your journal becomes your confidant…

Two Wrenches

Poetry has avoided me ever since that first phone call. Though I feel words linger unsure of where to land. Life has thrown another challenge, unforeseen, and we wish to toss it back to where it came from. Confusion, sadness, fear, and anger all gather together in one hurried huddle. I want to hold the answers in the palm of my hand so I could pass them on to ease hurting hearts. But I haven’t captured them yet. They remain as elusive as poetry. The future is as unknown for me as it is for those whose questions loiter their every thought.

Right now, I’m seated at a picnic table in my favorite park where redwoods take in every emotion my mind expresses. The sun’s rays gently move through their branches, and I find myself smiling, something I haven’t done recently. There’s a small chance that before my time ends in this beautiful place, these majestic living creatures might just enlighten me to a realization still concealed beyond today’s bright sky. I can’t expect this offering though, and I wouldn’t want to put any pressure on these magnificent trees.

So, my eyes open to other patrons of this enchanting wilderness world. Families, couples, and playful canines. Toddlers toddling, sporting sunhats bigger than them creating a most adorable sight. My ears tune in to happy chatter, laughter, birdsong, and bicycles whirring by. A father and young son sit at a nearby picnic table, singing “The Wheels on the Bus.”

And yet, something heavy lies beneath my peaceful observations. Regardless, in this moment, hope rests in my pockets. And whether I realize it or not, this day is a gift, so I will relish the here and now.

Moving from the picnic table to one of our camp chairs, I notice the park is filling up – people of all ages excited to not only spend time outdoors with loved ones, but to be in the company of redwoods. Who wouldn’t consider such an experience to be a privilege?

Looking up, I scan the trunk of a 200-year-old, and I notice a stellar jay looking down at me. His beak moves from left to right, right to left, and I imagine him saying, “Hey down there, how goes it?”

To understand why this place feels so necessary, I have to return to Friday morning when our land line rang around 7:30 am. Over the weekend, we hadn’t fully processed what the conversation meant when similar shocking news came through a text thread on Monday. Words I rarely allow oxygen escaped without permission. Maybe some words deserve that kind of freedom. Life was simply that shaken up.

Nonetheless, through conversation and consoling, along with a little Chardonnay and Elijah Craig, the jagged edges began to soften. But it felt like life stood still. Nothing mattered except what they were feeling, what they were enduring. In that instant, the smoke between their ears, the grit beneath their fingernails. What we felt in our hearts, aching, hot anger in our bones. How could devastation tap them on the shoulders – two people who instill nothing but kindness into the murky spaces of humanity?

But my mind returns to the peace. The stellar jay has left its perch, and I hope sadness doesn’t hold that blue bird down because the weight of gloom rests heavy on my shoulders.

Still, the tranquility…like a comforting embrace. I inhale. I exhale. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to slide. So, I will continue to observe the splendor and delight whirling around me.

And then I will take another spin around the loop on my cream-colored cruiser, another stroll among the canary yellow wildflowers. Perhaps I will slip off my sneakers to dip my toes in the gentle creek, surrounded by these remarkable redwoods, sending me a message that all will eventually be okay.

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I have intentionally blurred the actual events in this narrative, a necessary choice to respect personal boundaries and privacy. And I hesitated to share this piece, but then decided it would be okay. Maybe my story resonates..thank you for visiting and for reading. And I wish you a wonderful week ahead. ❤️

© Lauren Scott, BaydreamerWrites.com

Lauren Scott is a Pushcart Prize nominee who enjoys small-town living in California’s Bay Area with her husband, Matt, of thirty-seven years. Although their daughter and son live out of state, frequent visits and modern technology keep their family of four close. Lauren is the author of four poetry collections, a memoir, and a children’s picture book. She has been a guest on several podcasts and her work has appeared in seven anthologies. Her poetry and prose has also been featured by Spillwords Press and Literary Revelations where she has received several honors. Lauren is a member of the Redwood Writers chapter and Marin chapter of the California Writers Club, and she is currently working on a new poetry collection and an early chapter book for children.