Paper Sailboats
for years, i've been scribbling things down on bits of paper--napkins, receipts, anything handy. Some of them became essays, some of them became poems, some of them became lint in my pocket, some of them, I suppose, never became anything at all.
Now they are here. As I unearth these scraps, these bits and pieces of thoughts and words that have been stowed away in pockets, purses, and book margins for years, I am typing them here.
It feels a bit like making paper sailboats, and sending them down a stream, like my brother and I did when we were kids. There was an odd sense of enthusiasm, of excitement and possibility, as though something had been created and you had no idea where it would go, only that it would be good. I did not find my enthusiasm odd then--it was pure, delightful, quite rightfully childlike--but now, as I re-visit those moments, I think that it was odd...because none of those ships survived--and we *had* to know they wouldn't. What hope could there be that a paper boat could ever sail?
And yet, I can still feel my heart's pace quicken when I think about those moments. Nine years old, bending down to set things sail in the fast and swirling currents, I sport an irrepressible smile
Now, as I look more closely--or perhaps from farther away--I think that I was excited because something was about to begin. A journey. I wanted to see how far it would go and what path it would take to get there. No two trips were ever the same.
We'd lean out over the water, as far as our arms would go, and lower our boats down gently. Then we'd jump up and run along the banks, cheering each other on, shouting out what was happening, even though we both could see.
Here's what's especially interesting to me now: I don't ever remember the end of the line. I don't recall a single shipwreck, a single boat going down beneath the churning water of our miniature sea. I only remember togetherness--my little brother and I--breathless and excited, pounding barefoot along that stream, trying to keep up and feeling as though we could fly.
Now they are here. As I unearth these scraps, these bits and pieces of thoughts and words that have been stowed away in pockets, purses, and book margins for years, I am typing them here.
It feels a bit like making paper sailboats, and sending them down a stream, like my brother and I did when we were kids. There was an odd sense of enthusiasm, of excitement and possibility, as though something had been created and you had no idea where it would go, only that it would be good. I did not find my enthusiasm odd then--it was pure, delightful, quite rightfully childlike--but now, as I re-visit those moments, I think that it was odd...because none of those ships survived--and we *had* to know they wouldn't. What hope could there be that a paper boat could ever sail?
And yet, I can still feel my heart's pace quicken when I think about those moments. Nine years old, bending down to set things sail in the fast and swirling currents, I sport an irrepressible smile
Now, as I look more closely--or perhaps from farther away--I think that I was excited because something was about to begin. A journey. I wanted to see how far it would go and what path it would take to get there. No two trips were ever the same.
We'd lean out over the water, as far as our arms would go, and lower our boats down gently. Then we'd jump up and run along the banks, cheering each other on, shouting out what was happening, even though we both could see.
Here's what's especially interesting to me now: I don't ever remember the end of the line. I don't recall a single shipwreck, a single boat going down beneath the churning water of our miniature sea. I only remember togetherness--my little brother and I--breathless and excited, pounding barefoot along that stream, trying to keep up and feeling as though we could fly.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home