Sometimes ideas latch onto me and will not let go. One day, for no
particular reason, my mind drifted back to a day (or perhaps a composite of
days) when I walked straight through New York City's Central Park from the West
Side to the East Side. That didn't happen often, because I only had two
friends who lived on the East Side and once they were gone, only an
occasional visit to the Met drew me over there.
When I thought back to those
occasions, I found myself wanting to write about the trees. There was one path
closer to the West Side I think, where the trees formed a canopy over the
walkway. I was struck by how protected I remembered feeling almost as if the
trees were caring for me and mothering me. And I wanted to write about it.
It wasn't a short story I wanted to write, but a poem. Now mind you, I have
never (successfully) written a poem that was borne out of a direct attempt to
write a poem. That is to say, any decent poems I've ever turned out simply
presented themselves to me to be written and like a good recording secretary, I
listened and transcribed them. That's not to say that these poems didn't need
rethinking, revising and extreme editing. But there was no gnashing of teeth
and general internal wailing I did in my determination to write about the trees
in Central Park.
Finally, after many horrible false starts, another poem mercifully presented
itself to me. It had trees, but they were the poplars that grew in a straight
line alongside the house I grew up in.
Well then that evolved into a partial
tale of my childhood which included my relationship with the Joyce Kilmer poem
"Trees" and the teacher who made her class memorize it. Clearly that
was the story that I needed to tell in the writing of that poem.
Many snippets of memories of New York city call to me, including the trees
in Central Park. Who knows whether they will ever speak to me as poems or find
their way into my stories. But I'll keep listening.
What places call to you?
Open the door...tell your best story with one of my workshops.
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